


Reap What You Sow

by notkingyet



Category: Jonathan Strange & Mr Norrell (TV)
Genre: Abortion, Body Horror, Ectopic Pregnancy, Erectile Dysfunction, Hurt/Comfort, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Mpreg, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Yuleporn, Yuletide Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-16
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-08 21:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,451
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8862970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notkingyet/pseuds/notkingyet
Summary: When Childermass is targeted by those who would use the Raven King’s Book for their own gain, he turns to Mr Segundus for help.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nonesane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nonesane/gifts).



> Thanks to [rosaofswords](http://rosaofswords.tumblr.com) for tarot help, and [htbthomas](http://archiveofourown.org/users/htbthomas) and [Kaesa](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Kaesa) for beta-reading.

Childermass knew he was dreaming. If he were awake, he’d never have been caught in such a position. 

He sat upon a tree-stump in the midst of a clearing in a forest of enormous gnarled trees, whose grey trunks stood wider than houses and whose leafless branches blotted out the sky. Twisted vines of thorns covered the ground like a carpet, and grew up between the tree-trunks like a wall. These same vines bound his wrists and ankles. He pulled against them experimentally. Before his very eyes, they grew thicker and wrapped themselves double around him, holding him fast. 

“John Childermass.” 

Childermass raised his eyes from his bindings. Before him stood three persons. On the right stood a tall fairy with a beard like tree bark. On the left stood a slender fairy wearing naught but a mottled cloak in all the colors of dying leaves, with dried brown moss for trim. Between them, directly in front of Childermass, staring at him with deep-green eyes too wide by half for its delicate face, stood the fairy who’d spoken. Despite the abundance of fauna, the fairy’s eyes were the only green thing in the clearing. 

“You are the Reader of the Raven King’s Book,” it continued. 

Childermass twisted his fingers to get at his shirt-cuff, where his waking self kept a pin hidden. It was a habit left over from bygone days when manacles seemed a likely fate for his wrists. A pin would not be so useful against vines, but it was iron, and might be of some use against his captors. But the pin was not to be found in his dream, and so he let his hands fall still. “You have the advantage of me.” 

The fairy on the left laughed, bubbling and mirthless. The other two ignored it. 

“John Uskglass erred in putting such things in writing where any Christian might read them,” said the middle fairy. “Such power cannot be trusted in their foolish hands. You must give us the Book.” 

“It is not mine to give,” said Childermass. “It belongs to my king.” 

The middle fairy’s long grey eyebrows swooped down over its enormous green eyes. Wrinkles like whiskers proliferated across its cheeks in a scowl. “You _will_ give us the Book.” 

Childermass matched its scowl with a long, blank look. “I will not.” 

“We will give you riches!” trilled the fairy on the left. “Silver and gold! Rubies and sapphires and diamonds! We will dress you in the finest silks and velvets, and you shall eat the choicest fruits!” 

“Thank you,” said Childermass, “but I have no call for riches.” 

“We will make you a king!” cried the fairy on the right. “You will have a magnificent castle, and thousands of subjects! You need never serve another as long as you live!” 

Childermass couldn’t quite suppress the ironical half-smile conjured by that suggestion. “I should make a very poor king. Besides, I’ve a king already, and am happy in his service.” 

“Then,” said the middle fairy, in a voice as cold and quiet as frost, “we will destroy you. And have the Book regardless.” 

“Do as you like,” said Childermass. He rolled his shoulders as if to straighten them to face his fate. In doing so, he felt his chest and back all over with his muscles, to see if any secret pocket held a pen-knife or pistol. But he found no such object. 

The three fairies set upon him. 

The slender fairy seized his shoulders. The tall fairy caught his jaw and forced it open. The green-eyed fairy reached into a cobweb purse and produced a single seed no larger than a pea. The fairy popped it into Childermass’s mouth, then clamped its hands over his nose and lips. 

Childermass struggled like a tiger in a net, like a man in a lion’s den, like a child-thief who knew he’d twist in the wind beside his mother if he let himself be caught. Such instincts had served him well in the past. But fairies with centuries to live had more patience than a mortal man. No matter how Childermass bit and thrashed, the thorn bindings held strong, and the fairies held stronger. Childermass had to swallow the bitter seed to breathe. 

The green-eyed fairy removed its bleeding hands from Childermass’s face. Childermass immediately gagged, trying to force the seed back up from his stomach. The green-eyed fairy was on him again in an instant, both palms pressed tight over Childermass’s mouth. It leaned down close to whisper in his ear with a voice like wind through dry leaves. 

“A year and a day, John Childermass. A year and a day, and the Raven King’s Book is ours.” 

Then it drew back to slap him in the face. 

Childermass awoke. Above him ran the familiar ceiling rafters of the garret of the Old Starre Inn. The rumble of Vinculus’s snores filled his ears. The faint light of sunrise struggled past grey English clouds to reach through the window-glass and fill the room with a soft white glow. 

Childermass vaulted out of bed and rushed to the chamber-pot in the corner, shoving two fingers down his throat as he went. He fell to his knees gagging. His efforts brought up naught but acid and spittle. Another man might be tempted to take this as evidence that his dream was merely a dream. Childermass caught his breath, washed his mouth, and laid out the Cards of Marseilles. They told him quite plainly the dream had been all too real. Like many an unlucky maid before him, Childermass was in trouble. 

As little pity as Childermass had for any creature crawling the earth, he had even less for himself. Thus he wasted no time in worrying for his own survival. He would find a way out, or he wouldn’t. But he would certainly make an attempt. 

First, he examined the Book, both his own notes and the original text. Vinculus’s habit of sleeping past noon made this easy. Childermass made many more notes that morning, but in looking them and Vinculus over, he found nothing applicable to his predicament. While the fairies had given him a year and a day to prepare, he didn’t intend to spend all that time reading. The purpose of the thing within him was to steal Vinculus away. Better for Vinculus, Childermass, and all of English magic if the thing and the Book were separated sooner rather than later. 

So Childermass sent notes to Dr Foxcastle and Mr Thorpe and bid them meet him at the Inn at their earliest convenience. Mr Thorpe arrived that afternoon. When he did, Childermass roused Vinculus. 

“You’ve been reading me,” Vinculus groused as he pulled on the same filthy shirt he’d worn all week. 

Childermass wondered aloud what else one was supposed to do with a book. 

Vinculus laughed. “You’ve scoured my text for an answer—and found nothing.” 

Childermass admitted as much and marched him downstairs to Mr Thorpe. 

Mr Thorpe awaited them in the upper room of the Old Starre Inn. Childermass felt fortunate that it was Mr Thorpe who’d answered his call. He’d long ago identified him as the most sensible member of the York Society. Indeed, it was due to Mr Thorpe’s good sense that Childermass’s proposal--of a room for himself and Vinculus in exchange for granting the York Society the opportunity to study the Book--had gone over so well with the Society. 

At present, Childermass explained to Mr Thorpe that circumstances in Faerie required him to go away for a while. For the sake of English magic, it would be best to leave the Book in the care of the Society. Would Mr Thorpe be so kind as to take up the charge? 

Mr Thorpe agreed. In fact, he went so far as to offer to let Vinculus stay with him in his own house. Vinculus inquired after the state of Mr Thorpe’s wine-cellar. Mr Thorpe solemnly assured him it was extensive. Vinculus accepted his proposal. Childermass packed his possessions and departed the Old Starre Inn alone. 

As Childermass walked out of the Inn to its stable, a twinge in his gut staggered him. He braced one hand against the alley wall and gingerly felt his stomach with the other. It twinged again, and whatever lay within gave a definite kick against his palm. The fairy whelp had quickened. 

Childermass forced himself upright and continued walking as if, like most men, he carried no monster inside him beyond his own soul. 

In Newcastle, Childermass secured a room in a lodging house and set to work on his predicament. On the advice of _De viribus herbarum_ , he tried rue and tansy. Tansy’s camphorous scent seemed promising. Ultimately, its effects disappointed; the bloat worsened, and the thing inside him kicked with glee. Childermass, meanwhile, woke himself every morning by retching. 

Remembrances of Black Joan inspired him to try pennyroyal. He wondered if she’d had similar designs when she found herself heavy with him. He couldn’t imagine he’d given her half as much trouble as the fairies’ whelp gave him—at least, not until he’d left her womb. 

It took him a month to recover from the pennyroyal, and it left him with a twitch for two weeks afterward—though, in fairness to the midwife who’d sold it to him, she’d intended it as a tea, whilst he’d reduced it to an oil. The oil made the thing inside him squirm and writhe, causing him just as much discomfort as he caused it, but it ultimately survived, and seemed all the stronger for its ordeal. 

Three months since he swallowed the seed, Childermass found he could neither sit nor stand comfortably, nor could he lie down without tossing and turning. The small of his back produced a constant ache. The pain ebbed and flowed yet never receded entirely. He grit his teeth against it and sewed mugwort into his pillow. Then, for good measure, he burnt more mugwort in a saucer and drank the rest in a tea. That night he dreamed of a hunt, and saw the fairies who gave him the seed driven before a pack of baying black hounds and feathered wolves. He awoke no better rested than he’d retired. The fairies might be destroyed, but the wretched thing within him remained. 

At the five-month mark, Childermass’s swollen belly began to interfere with his trouser ties. He let out the waistband. The thing inside him pricked his guts whenever his needle pricked the cloth. With his mending done, Childermass tried calamus and dill. Calamus elicited no noticeable effect whatsoever. He’d hoped dill would at least settle his stomach, but found himself as nauseated as ever. 

It took the creature six months to exhaust the store of fat under Childermass’s skin. After that, it began sapping his vital heat directly. His nail-beds turned blue with cold. No matter how he built up the fire in the grate, its warmth never reached him. He took to leaving it banked. After all, there was no sense wasting coal. 

Eight months into the infernal gestation, Childermass began to overhear whispers from the staff of the lodging-house in which he stayed. The cook wondered how a man could grow such a round belly whilst eating almost nothing of her cooking. The maid wondered how a man so clearly a drunk—with the odd hours he kept, and such sallow cheeks, and unable to leave his bed for weeks at a time—could leave his room so clean of the evidence of bottles and alehouse slips. The landlady hushed them both; the man’s rent was good, after all. Childermass ignored them. 

At nine months, a human child would’ve been delivered of a human woman. Childermass received only dreams of a girl with ragged black hair clutching a blood-streaked, squalling babe to her bosom. The thing within him continued to grow.

Childermass consulted with midwives and chemists on behalf of a fictional sister. But when he told them of all the things this “sister” had already tried to rid herself of her infernal babe, they expressed great surprize that the girl yet lived, much less the child, and they refused to prescribe anything more.

Seeking more general advice from others on how to rid oneself of a parasite, Childermass hit upon wormwood. The chemist warned him that while wormwood was vicious to parasites, neither was it kind to the host. Childermass thanked him for his guidance and ignored it. He drank the bitter tincture on the fifth of the month. He was bedridden until the twenty-ninth. The creature recovered before he did. Childermass supposed he should’ve expected as much by now. 

In the tenth month, the chemist who’d prescribed wormwood recommended a distilled spirit with green anise and fennel, newly imported from Pontarlier. According to the chemist, it was a most promising patent remedy. Childermass dutifully took it. He was rewarded with dreams of his own destruction, of the creature within him clawing its way out from the inside, tearing him to shreds as it went. Childermass returned to the chemist a third time for laudanum and didn’t darken his door again after that. 

In the midst of the eleventh month, Childermass began pissing blood. 

As the fateful day drew ever nearer, Childermass considered abandoning the possibility of his own survival and killing the thing with arsenic or prussic acid. In the end, he decided against it. Not only did his sense of self-preservation prevail, but he couldn’t be certain the creature wouldn’t survive past his death to seize Vinculus and all the Raven King’s wisdom. No. Childermass would fight the thing to his last. If poison failed him, he would take up a blade. For the moment, he took up his pipe. 

The final month passed slowly. Childermass spent it in his room. Every morning he woke himself up being sick. Then he attempted to eat a breakfast brought up by the maid. The last year had taught him to ignore the eggs, sausage, and ham. Tea and gruel brought cramps, but nothing worse. Usually. Some days he could even manage toast. 

Once breakfast was swallowed (and probably brought up again), Childermass read his cards. For months now they’d shewn the same pattern over and over, told through different suits and pips: he’d been attacked, the battle was ongoing, the outcome was uncertain. 

By this point, he was usually exhausted, and so crawled back into bed with his pipe. Tobacco helped the nausea, though it never truly banished it. If he felt well enough, he might rise again for tea or supper. More often than not he slept until dawn again—or until he woke thrashing from the violence of the creature in his guts. 

The final week of the final month began the same as the fifty-one previous. But when Childermass read his cards, something had changed. Yes, he’d been attacked, and yes, the battle was ongoing, and yes, the outcome was uncertain. But the final card he turned over bid him go a-wandering. If he wished to have a chance against the beast within him, he had to leave Newcastle. Not wishing to return to the York Society and become another oddity in their collection (not unlike Vinculus), Childermass could think of but one other place where he might find discreet assistance to escape his predicament. 

And so, for the first time in almost a year, Childermass saddled Brewer—with a great deal of assistance from the grooms of the stable where he’d boarded him. Between his own starved and weakened state and the thing scratching at his insides, it took two tries for Childermass to mount his steed. Brewer, good creature that he was, stayed very still through both attempts. Childermass patted his neck in gratitude and set off. 

The ride was slow. With no fat left on his frame, every step of Brewer’s hooves jolted Childermass’s bones. He couldn’t bear to urge Brewer to more than a walk. What would’ve taken them two or three days to traverse a year ago took him the better part of the week now. 

The day before the date the green-eyed fairy named, Childermass awoke in the last inn between himself and his destination. He expected to be ill. He did not expect to feel as if a barbed lance were driven through him, from navel to spine, and twisted to and fro until he had to bite the bedsheets to keep from screaming aloud. The pain lasted half a minute. As it ebbed, Childermass lay gasping, sweat beading his brow. He made to raise himself up on his elbows. Another bolt of agony laid him low. When it, too, faded, Childermass forced himself up to dress and stagger out of the inn to the stable. The third pang caught him as he saddled Brewer. He fell to his knees in the inn-yard, clenching his jaw so hard he cracked a tooth. The grooms helped him up and bid him stay while they fetched a surgeon from town. Childermass shook his head and dragged himself onto Brewer’s back. 

The fourth pang found him a half-mile down the road. By this point, he felt justified in letting out a scream. Brewer’s ears flattened and he took off in a gallop. Childermass didn’t bother reining him in. The jolting pain in his bones was nothing to the tearing agony in his gut. 

Childermass had awoken to a dark and brooding sky. Two miles into their journey, the clouds opened. Good English rain poured down. Its freezing drops splashed Childermass’s cheeks. He turned his face up to meet them, the cold offering some small relief from the fever boiling up within him. Brewer bounded on. 

The York countryside flew past. For miles, there was no sign of civilization. Only barren moor. Then, out of the gloom, there rose the silhouette of a small, tumble-down village, scattered around a house. The atmosphere tingled with magical energy, lighting sparks on Childermass’s tongue as he approached. Starecross. Despite the best efforts of the fairy spawn, he’d reached it. His last chance at salvation was nigh. 

Childermass, never foolish enough for premature celebration, ducked his head and kicked Brewer on over the bridge spanning the beck. 

Brewer reared as Childermass halted him in the yard of Starecross Hall. Steam rose from the steed’s heaving sides as Childermass tumbled from the saddle and staggered towards the house. Thick mud-puddles sucked at his boots. He stumbled to one knee, twisting it, and forced himself up with a shout. 

“Segundus!” 

The only answer he received was a crack of lightning and rolling thunder. 

Childermass reached the door and fell against it, then pushed himself off to abuse its knocker and slam both fists on the hard wood. The thing within him gave a wretched twist. Childermass wrenched his cry of pain into another shout. 

“Segundus!” 

He was on his knees again—he didn’t remember falling—he leaned his ear against the door. He thought he heard footsteps from within the house, and a voice inquiring after his name and purpose. Then he collapsed on the stone steps and thought no more. 


	2. Chapter 2

Segundus stared down at the crumpled form on his doorstep. Then he put his lantern down on the threshold and knelt for further inspection.

The man—for it was a man—had fallen in a heap, curled in on himself with his arms above his head. Segundus took him by the shoulder and rolled him, turning the man’s face towards the sky. The man’s crumpled-brim hat had rolled away across the flagstones, and his long, ragged black hair tumbled over his face. Segundus brushed it out of the way. The man’s skin felt cold and clammy against his fingertips. Segundus assumed the rain could be blamed for that. Beneath the hair, the man had a gaunt visage, with stubbled, hollow cheeks and dark bruising around his eyes. He appeared more like a corpse than a living man. About the only part of his face that hadn’t sunken in was the nose, which remained quite long.

With a start, Segundus recognized Childermass.

Segundus shouted over his shoulder for assistance and continued his assessment of Childermass. A quick fumbling at his collar—his cravat, though clean, was sloppily tied—allowed Segundus to find a pulse. He was relieved to know Childermass yet lived, though the tempo of the pulse, faint and frantic, didn’t ease his worry. Apart from his starved appearance and unconscious state, Childermass didn’t seem in any way wounded. Still, he clearly wasn’t well, or he wouldn’t have collapsed.

Segundus shouted again. “Mr Purfois! Mr Levy! Mr Hadley-Bright! Come quick!”

As Segundus’s only patient had been released back into her husband’s care, Starecross Hall no longer operated as an asylum. And as Mr Norrell was no longer present in England and thus unable to prevent him, Segundus decided to fulfill his original goal and open a school for magicians. And as Mr Strange had departed England alongside Mr Norrell and left his students behind, Segundus happily took them on. Thus, the residents of Starecross Hall included not only Segundus and the staff, but also William Hadley-Bright, the Honourable Henry Purfois, and Tom Levy.

At present, these three young men answered Segundus’s call for aid.

“By Jove,” said Purfois as Hadley-Bright dropt beside Segundus to examine Childermass. “That’s Mr Norrell’s man, is it not?”

“Reader of the King’s Book now,” Tom Levy corrected him before Segundus could.

“Mr Hadley-Bright,” said Segundus. “You have experience moving wounded men, do you not? Would you kindly direct us how best to bring him into the house?”

Hadley-Bright did so. The three young men and Segundus carried Childermass over the threshold and down the hall to the parlor—it being the nearest room where a fire yet burned in the hearth. 

As they laid him out on the sopha, Childermass’s greatcoat fell open. Segundus frowned puzzledly. Childermass had grown rather thicker around the middle than one might have expected from his gaunt cheeks and hollow eyes. 

“Shall we send for a surgeon, sir?” asked Hadley-Bright.

Segundus turned to answer him. 

A fierce grip seized Segundus’s wrist. He whirled towards it and found Childermass’s hand, knuckle-bones showing hard and white through skin stretched paper-thin, wrapped around his shirt-cuff. 

Childermass’s dark eyes stared wildly into his own. A harsh whisper burst from his cracked lips. “Send them out.”

An unmistakable imperative. Segundus might’ve questioned it privately. Aloud, he said, “Mr Purfois, tell Bessie to get a fire going in the north-west guest room. Mr Hadley-Bright, have Jameson see to the horse. Mr Levy, if you would be so kind as to fetch a surgeon—”

“No surgeon!” Childermass’s growl turned into pained rasp halfway through.

“Then,” said Segundus, as if the interruption hadn’t involved Childermass spitting blood to clear his throat, “if you would see Cook about some tea, Mr Levy, I’m sure it would be of great assistance.”

Hadley-Bright and Purfois having already scampered off to fulfill their duties, Tom Levy gave a solemn nod and departed for the kitchen. Segundus shut and locked the door behind them all, then turned back to Childermass and found him pulling his waistcoat open with a fury that tore buttonholes.

“Easy, now!” Segundus urged, hurrying to render aid.

Childermass batted his hands away with a snarl and started in on his shirt. It fell open in short order, and Childermass untied his trousers and pulled up his undershirt to expose his swollen belly.

Under the cover of clothes, Segundus had supposed it might be fat. But with the flesh exposed, he saw he’d erred in his assumption. Beneath the skin lay a convoluted knot, poking out with odd bumps and lumps in all directions, creating a pattern of mottled black bruises which looked none too comfortable. One of the lumps moved. Segundus stared in horror as whatever was within Childermass writhed, knotting and un-knotting itself.

Childermass drew in a hiss of pain and fumbled for his waistcoat pocket. He drew out a pen-knife. Then, before Segundus could do anything more than wonder at its purpose, Childermass raised the knife in his clenched fist and plunged it into his own stomach, just below his breast-bone.

“Good God!” Segundus cried, reeling backwards.

Childermass ignored him, intent on sawing through his belly. Blood roiled from his self-inflicted wound; he seemed to have difficulty keeping his grip on the now-slick handle. The trembling in his hands was surely no help. Layers of gristle stubbornly resisted his efforts. He fought for every quarter-inch of progress. Segundus came forward again, just as the blade reached the top-most lump in Childermass’s guts, and the tip of a thick black root poked out of the two-inch gash. Childermass dropped his knife.

“Segundus—!” he choked out. The rest was lost in a gurgling in his throat.

Segundus swallowed hard and picked up the knife. Plainly, whatever was within Childermass needed to be out by any means necessary.

“Steady,” he said, as much to himself as to Childermass, and put the blade to the gash. Scarlet waves poured over with every pained gasp from Childermass’s throat. They came faster as Segundus worked.

Think of it as an experiment, he told himself as he forced his eyes to stay open and regard the pinkish-white fat beneath the skin, the gristly red muscle pulling against his blade, and the pink and purple mass of Childermass’s intestines. He cut carefully through the connective tissue around the latter, not wishing to do more harm than absolutely necessary. Blood soaked his shirt-cuffs. He shoved them up his arms, leaving crimson smears in their wake, and set to work again, sliding his fingers once more into the hot, slick mess of Childermass’s innards. Along with vivid muscle and pulsing veins, his cuts revealed more of that twisted black root. It wriggled out of the knife’s reach. A high-pitched whine filled Segundus’s ears. He turned to offer some words of comfort to Childermass and discovered Childermass’s eyes had fallen shut, and his breaths grown shallow. Childermass was unconscious. The roots were whining, and now that whine became a keen.

Segundus did his best to ignore it as his slices circumnavigated Childermass’s navel. He pulled the blade down through Childermass’s open fly until the steel struck bone. Then, despite his instinctive desire to close the wound up and concentrate his efforts on soothing the patient, he peeled open the layers of skin, fat, and muscle like the leaves of a book.

Not benefiting from a medical education, Segundus had only a faint notion of how a man’s intestines were supposed to look. Still, he felt tolerably certain they weren’t supposed to have knotted around a lump of black roots, stubby and thick, tendrils gradually narrowing down to the width of a man’s thumb before coming sharply to a wicked point. The lump twitched and stretched, faintly keening all the while. Segundus steeled his nerve and reached out to grab it. It offered no resistance as he wrapped his fingers around its central mass—cold and hard, more stone than plant. He began to peel it out. Its keening grew louder. Its tendrils dug into Childermass’s guts, dragging the blood-slick knots up with it. Segundus cut the black branches away, wincing as he nicked Childermass’s flesh, though Childermass himself was too far gone to notice. His cuts turned to hacks as the keening became a scream. Tendrils wrapped around his hand, and sharp pains came to his palm and knuckles—he would’ve sworn the thing was biting him. He grit his teeth and bit it back with the knife.

He was holding it at arm’s length above Childermass’s body, a few loops of intestine still clutched in its knots, when he realized it felt much heavier than when he’d first pulled it out. He glanced at it and found the thing which had filled his palm before now engulfed his arm near three-quarters of the way to his elbow. As he stared, thunderstruck, it reached forth a tendril—a tendril which looked very much like an arm of its own—and scrambled for purchase, slapping at his rolled-up shirt-cuff.

In two swift blows, Segundus sliced through the remaining points connecting it to Childermass. He flung the thing to the ground. It hit the floorboards with a sickening wet thud and rolled onto its crude hands and knees. Now the size of an infant, and not dissimilar in shape, it crawled in a frantic circle, then dashed back towards Childermass, shrieking bloody murder. 

Segundus dropped the knife to clap his palms over both ears as the creature’s screams rose. The noise threatened to split his skull and rob him of all reason. He collapsed to his knees, and felt—rather than heard—his own cry of agony burst forth from his throat. 

A rush of blackness filled his vision. At first he thought he was losing consciousness. An instant later, he realized the sudden black cloud was Childermass’s greatcoat billowing past as Childermass lunged from the sopha to pounce upon the monster. 

Childermass seemed to pay no heed to his own intestines spilling from his open belly as he moved. He pinned the thing to the floorboards with one hand and with the other snatched up the knife Segundus had dropped. The creature was child-sized now, its knobbly arms growing fingers to scratch at Childermass’s face. Childermass didn’t flinch. His yellow teeth clenched in a fearsome snarl as he raised the knife to strike at the thing’s heart. The blade came down like Hephaestus’s hammer on an adamantine anvil. The thing screeched louder than ever. Down and down again Childermass stabbed, hacking away at it. With every strike it seemed to shrink, its caterwauling growing fainter and fainter. Segundus let his hands fall from his ears—just as Childermass picked up the whining remains and threw it onto the fire.

As the root-child met the flames, it screamed its loudest. Then, mid-shriek, it was silenced. Only the roar of the flames remained, with a furious pounding on the locked parlor door, and shouts from the other side. 

Segundus stared at the door, then the fire, then Childermass.

Childermass lay on the floor, half-curled around his own intestines. They slipped through his bloodied hands as he feebly tried to re-gather them. Whatever burst of vital energy that enabled him to slaughter his tormentor had fled, leaving him pale and shaking. And small wonder, when half of him lay strewn across the floorboards.

Segundus hastened to his side. He took Childermass by the shoulders and gently rolled him onto his back. Childermass, hardly in any position to resist, allowed this. Then, choking back his gorge, Segundus heaped Childermass’s guts back into his belly by the armful, muttering the incantation for Teilo’s Hand all the while—not that Childermass seemed to have any blood left to flow. The only thing for it was Restoration and Rectification. Segundus supposed he ought to feel something of an old hand at it by now, having put it to such good use in the past. But presented with the prospect of a man’s blood splashed across his parlor floor—to say nothing of that blood belonging particularly to Childermass—tested his nerve. It was with shaking hands he took up the blade that had fallen from Childermass’s limp fingers and fumbled in his own pocket for a suitable cross-piece. He found a bent skeleton-key in his waistcoat, tied it to the knife-blade with a bit of thread from one of Childermass’s torn buttonholes, and performed the magic.

Flesh and sinew re-knit as if pinched together by hundreds of invisible fingers. Childermass gave a terrible, death-rattle gasp. His spine arched, launching him off the floor as if Galvanized, his eyes flown wide. Then, all at once, they rolled back into his head and he fell down limp and senseless.

Segundus hurried to check his pulse. To his immense relief, he found him alive.

“I say, sir!”

Segundus jerked his head towards the locked door, from behind which the shout had originated.

The shouting continued. “Whatever harm you’ve done to Mr Segundus will come down on your own head tenfold! We are well-armed! Open this door!”

Segundus, recognizing the military tone of Hadley-Bright, scrambled to his feet to fumble with the lock. “It’s all right, gentlemen!”

“Mr Segundus!” This shout sounded particularly like Tom Levy. “Is that you?”

“Perhaps it’s that Childermass fellow,” suggested Purfois in a lower tone, “disguised as Mr Segundus, whom he has murdered.”

“I am not murdered, Purfois,” Segundus reassured him through the keyhole. At last he got the door open. It swung wide and left him facing the barrel of Hadley-Bright’s pistol. Behind it stood Hadley-Bright, his mouth set in a grim line. Purfois and Tom Levy flanked him, Purfois bearing a horse-whip, Tom Levy with a fireplace poker.

“Your pardon, sir,” said Hadley-Bright. “But could you tell us something only the true Mr Segundus would know?”

Segundus blinked at the pistol. “I’m afraid there’s very little I know that other men don’t know better.”

“It’s him,” said Tom Levy.

Hadley-Bright lowered his pistol. “Very sorry, sir. We heard the screams, and—Good God!”

For as Segundus stepped back to allow his students to enter the parlor, Hadley-Bright saw the state the parlor was in. Likewise, Tom Levy paled, and Purfois put his handkerchief to his mouth to stop himself from being sick.

Segundus turned to try and see the room from their perspective. The sopha, which had once been a royal blue, was now drenched in a sickening shade of black-purple. This stain turned scarlet as it spread onto the floor, and smeared its way around to where Childermass now lay, his white shirt turned bright crimson. His bare belly was likewise painted red, and concave rather than convex, but the skin beneath it was whole again, with nothing more than a thin scar to show for it, much thinner than the wound Segundus recalled. Segundus looked down at his own hands. They, too, were covered in Childermass’s blood, caked under his nails and in the creases of his joints, and soaking his shirtsleeves up to his shoulders.

“Yes, well,” said Segundus. “I believe the danger has passed.”

“What was it?” asked Purfois, his voice cracking on the second word.

“I’m afraid I do not yet know.” Segundus cleared his throat. “Mr Hadley-Bright, there is something dead in the fire. Kindly aim your pistol at it. Should it attempt to be less dead, make it moreso.”

Hadley-Bright obeyed, fixing his soldier’s gaze on the blazing hearth and holding his weapon at the ready.

“Mr Purfois, Mr Levy,” Segundus continued, “please assist me in bearing Mr Childermass up to the guest room. I trust Bessie has made it ready?”

“Yes, sir,” Purfois said absently, his wide-eyed gaze still fixed on the blood-stained floor.

“Very good,” said Segundus, and stepped forward to do it, trusting his students would follow.


	3. Chapter 3

Childermass heard a crackling fire and a lonesome bird chirping. Something soft and insulating covered him. Nothing within him kicked or thrashed. Apart from a dull ache in his stomach—a trifle, compared to his recent experiences—he had no pain. For the first time in over a year, he felt warm. His growing awareness of these extraordinary circumstances made him open his eyes.

He found himself in a bed. Two quilts covered him. White-gold sunshine streamed through a window. Coals burned brightly in a hearth on the wall opposite the bed. Oak panelling covered the walls, and the ceiling was painted the color of cream. The door to the room was shut. In one corner there was a desk covered in books and papers. In another corner stood a clothes-horse. Childermass recognized his own saddle-bags hanging off it.

“Oh! Good morning!”

Childermass whipped his head towards the sound. The motion made his brain spin. He grimaced. As his vision cleared, he saw Segundus sitting in a chair beside his bed, an open book on his lap and a concerned expression on his face.

Segundus’s face was particularly suited to concern. His dark eyebrows contrasted against his pale skin, and when they knit together, they drew attention to his round, soulful eyes. His lips thinned, his sharp jaw clenched, and his pointed chin jutted in determination to find the source of his concerns and put an end to it.

Childermass blinked at him and echoed Segundus’s good morning. His voice creaked with lack of use. He wondered how long he’d slept.

“You’ve been unconscious for three days,” said Segundus, as if he could read the question in Childermass’s face. “I daresay you’ve earned a still longer rest. It was a mandrake, was it not? A most dangerous creature to be sure.”

“Be thankful it wasn’t a cockatrice,” said Childermass.

Segundus’s concerned expression deepened. While aesthetically pleasing, Childermass found the sight discomfiting. The memories of the circumstances leading to the present state, which exhaustion had kept at bay, trickled into Childermass’s mind as he grew more and more wakeful. It occurred to him that he owed Segundus his life.

“I thank you for your assistance, sir,” Childermass said. “And commend you on your courage.”

“My courage is nothing compared to your own,” said Segundus.

Childermass, ready to scoff at false modesty, found his throat closed against it as he realized Segundus spoke with all possible sincerity. This left Childermass with nothing else to say. 

An awkward silence settled around them. Childermass felt as though he might drift off again, until a sudden remembrance forced him bolt upright—or as upright as he could manage in his condition. “Brewer.”

Segundus, who had immediately thrust out his hand to prevent any further attempts to rise, appeared confused.

“My horse,” Childermass clarified.

“Well-tended in the stable,” Segundus assured him. “Happily munching oats, I’m sure. Healthy as—well, a horse, I suppose.”

Childermass found that difficult to believe—he’d ridden the poor old beast as hard as Black Bess—but he didn’t think Segundus was capable of lying. At least, not successfully. “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome.” 

Despite the reassurances he offered to Childermass, Segundus himself seemed disturbed by something. Childermass waited for him to voice it.

“I wonder,” Segundus inquired at last. “Have you by chance kept any sort of record of your… condition?”

“I have,” said Childermass.

Segundus appeared ashamed of his question, and even more ashamed of the one that followed. “May I see it?”

Childermass, having no such compunctions, jerked his chin towards his saddle-bags. Segundus searched through them with as much respect as if he were excavating an ancient tomb. Between a Bible and Paris Ormskirk’s _Revelations of Thirty-Six Other Worlds_ , he found a memorandum book. He flipped it open. His brow furrowed in confusion.

“Sir,” said Segundus. “You have written the account as if it occurred to someone else.”

“Other men may lay their souls bare for posterity. I do not care to. ‘Smith’ will do for my pseudonym, should you chuse to publish.”

Segundus blinked at him. “Publish?”

“You have the history of the case before you, and you were instrumental in its end. You’ve every right to publish it.”

“Why not yourself?”

A wry smile pulled at the corner of Childermass’s lips. “The name of John Segundus is surely more reputable than John Childermass.”

“On the contrary sir—as a servant to Mr Norrell, your name garners utmost respect!”

“As a servant,” Childermass echoed.

Segundus took his meaning at last. Faint color came to his cheeks. He ducked his head. “Forgive me, I—”

He stopped. His eyes, which had flicked over the lines of Childermass’s account in lieu of meeting Childermass’s gaze, came to a sudden halt in the center of the page. Then he blanched.

Childermass grinned. “You’ve reached the seventh month, then. Or is it the tenth?”

“No, the third. Good Lord. Pennyroyal?” Segundus looked up to fix Childermass with an expression of disbelief. “ _Oil_ of pennyroyal?”

Childermass shrugged.

Segundus swallowed hard and returned to the memorandum book. He finished the page and, with considerable self-restraint, shut it. To Childermass, he said, “Thank you, sir. Such knowledge will be valuable to all who have dealings with Faerie in the future.”

Childermass nodded. Clearly, Segundus expected him to say something more in reply, but his head was in a fog, and a vague ache roiled in his guts.

Segundus set aside the memorandum-book to dispense a dose of laudanum into a teacup. He held the cup out to Childermass.

Childermass reached for it, and found his hand trembled. He’d come to expect such betrayals from his flesh in the last year or so. Having no one but himself to witness them, they’d not bothered him overmuch beyond the physical barrier they formed between himself and his goals. But now, with Segundus giving Childermass’s trembling hand a wide-eyed stare of very grave concern indeed, Childermass felt a surge of impatience. He clenched his jaw and flexed his arm and willed his hand to stillness. For an instant, he managed it. He used this instant to snatch the cup and toss its contents down his throat. Black Joan hadn’t raised her children to show weakness. She knew they’d gain no mercy for it.

“Thank you,” said Childermass as he returned the cup to Segundus.

Segundus, whose round eyes now displayed astonishment as well as concern, said nothing.


	4. Chapter 4

The laudanum seemed to put Childermass at ease. He slipped down into sleep again shortly after his dose. Segundus watched the measured rise and fall of his chest in slumber, and tried not to contrast it with the memory of frantic, spasmodic gasps that had pulled against the knife blade as it dragged through his stomach.

To distract himself from such unpleasant thoughts, Segundus turned to Childermass’s memorandum book. There, he found entirely new unpleasant thoughts. His round eyes grew rounder as he read of poisons consumed, of pains suffered, of a body falling to pieces, of a man helpless to stop the monster within him. Segundus glanced again at Childermass’s chest—more properly called Childermass’s ribcage, for most of it shewed with little more than skin to cover it. And small wonder, with the mandrake devouring him from within whilst he could consume nothing from without.

Segundus shut the memorandum book, tucked it into the pocket of his coat, and went to the kitchens. There he consulted the cook on the appropriate fare for an invalid in Childermass’s condition. They settled on weak broths to start. A footman brought such a meal up to the sick-room. Childermass devoured it with enough decorum for a lord’s banquet—all the more astonishing for the speed at which he did so. Not a quarter-hour later the footman returned to the kitchen to convey Childermass’s request for more. Segundus supposed they could skip ahead in the _menu_ he’d planned for the next fortnight.

Soups, stews, sausages, toast, beef, potatoes—great heaps of hearty English fare disappeared down Childermass’s gullet. Within days, his face grew less pale and gaunt, and he regained some flesh over his ribs. Segundus sat with him as often as his duties allowed. Childermass slept through most of it at first, whilst Segundus read his account in his memorandum book. 

As days went by, Childermass roused himself for long enough to discuss his case with Segundus, and answer inquiries as to the appearance of the glade in the dream that begat it all, and the fairies who’d performed the spell, and the wolves and hounds that had hunted them. Segundus knew his questions were terribly rude, and apologized profusely for them, but Childermass seemed to take no offense and answered him without qualm.

Much had changed between the two men since the return of English magic. Previously, Childermass had been a shadowy obstruction in Segundus’s path, a harbinger of dashed hopes. Then, Childermass had all but battered down Starecross Hall’s door with the key to Lady Pole’s salvation, undoing the harm his master had wrought—and then called a meeting of the very organization he helped dissolve and given them the most valuable book of magic in English history. Now, Segundus had no idea what to make of him.

Three days after he first awoke from his ordeal, Childermass required almost no laudanum and spent the daylight hours awake and aware. Segundus took this as a sign that his patient could do very well without him—though in truth he didn’t mind watching over Childermass. Still, his students required instruction. Segundus had quite abandoned them since Childermass’s arrival. So on the fourth day, Segundus returned to teaching magic with a gnawing feeling of dissatisfaction in his chest. He assumed the sensation was guilt and did his best to ignore it.

In the following week, Segundus continued to receive reports on Childermass’s progress from the staff. His appetite continued unabated. He grew stronger by the day. He had taken to dressing and shaving himself before the footmen arrived with his breakfast each morning. He seemed to spend most of his time alternating between reading his books and reading his cards. Segundus privately rejoiced to find him recovering—though he could not stand for long, and physical exertion soon tired him. 

Hadley-Bright, Purfois, and Tom Levy maintained a respectful distance from the invalid. They inquired politely after him at the start of each day’s lessons, and kept their noses out of it for the rest of the day. The staff continued gossiping apace, though none of the rumors that reached Segundus’s ears hit anywhere near the mark. The cook took Childermass’s ravenous appetite as a compliment and grew fond of him. She developed a disconcerting habit of referring to him as a “poor wee lamb,” which Purfois found absurd.

“He’s a black sheep, certainly,” Purfois said to Tom Levy in the hall by the stair. “More likely a ragged old billy-goat. But a lamb! Ridiculous!”

“I couldn’t agree more,” said a voice behind him, low and Northern.

Levy’s brows shot up to his hairline. Purfois whirled around just in time to see the long, narrow shadow under the stair regain the shape of Childermass.

“Forgive me, sir,” Purfois stammered. “I didn’t realize—I did not even know you had risen from your sick-bed. Dashed good to find you up and about, I’m sure.”

“How did you do that?” asked Tom Levy, peering around them both into the shadow that remained.

A thin smile wound its way up one side of Childermass’s face.

And so Purfois and Tom Levy spent the afternoon under the stair with Childermass, stepping in and out of shadows. At length, Tom Levy managed to half-disappear into it, and Purfois swore that—for an instant—he’d lost sight of his own hand within the darkness. They relayed this excellent news to Segundus at supper.

Segundus, while surprized to hear Childermass was up and walking about, was delighted to know he was feeling better and getting on well with the young gentlemen.

Bessie, one of the maids, was less delighted to find Childermass out of bed.

“I tried to dust the mantle in Mr Childermass’s room, sir,” she explained to Segundus, “but it was already clean. I brought out the blacking for the grate, and someone’d already blacked it. And swept up the ashes. And started the fire. And made up the linens. And washed the windows! I don’t mean to seem neglectful in my duties, but he’s not left a bit of work for me to do!”

“Is he a brownie, sir?” another maid, Sally, inquired in an eager whisper.

Segundus assured them Childermass was quite human, and that he would have a talk with him about the matter.

The promise was easier made than fulfilled. It took him upwards of an hour of wandering Starecross Hall’s labyrinthine corridors to find Childermass. He discovered him in the butler’s pantry idly polishing the silver. Segundus privately noted that, while Childermass remained far leaner than he’d ever looked whilst in Mr Norrell’s service, he did not seem quite so frail as when last Segundus saw him. His frame had filled out some, and his stubbled cheeks were less hollow. Segundus’s heart gladdened at the sight.

Childermass listened to Segundus’s concerns about the staff’s morale in light of having their work taken from them. When Segundus had finished, he said, “I’ll apologize to Bessie. I’d no intention to offend.”

This was precisely what Segundus had hoped for, and he opened his mouth to express his gratitude for it. 

Before he could, Childermass added, “I’ll find something else to do about the house to occupy my time.”

This threw Segundus quite out of order. He stammered out a phrase or two regarding Childermass’s invalid condition.

Childermass merely smiled. “I should hardly think myself capable of standing here such as I am if I were truly an invalid. Indeed, I doubt many physicians would deign to call me a convalescent.”

Segundus tried again, this time emphasizing the great ordeal Childermass had endured (in circumspect terms, of course—one never knew who might be listening in such a busy house) and expressing his wish that Childermass not re-injure himself unnecessarily.

Childermass repeated his assertion that he felt quite up to any task.

Segundus sighed. “Then, I suppose—if I cannot convince you to rest—my only notion is that you might help me tutor the young gentlemen.”

Childermass raised an eyebrow but voiced no objection.

The next morning, Hadley-Bright, Purfois, and Tom Levy arrived in the Starecross Hall library to find not only their instructor, but Childermass. Whilst Segundus tutored Tom Levy, Childermass taught Hadley-Bright and Purfois to peel an apple in a single strip and read the letters formed by the fallen peel. Whilst Segundus tutored Purfois, Childermass taught Tom Levy and Hadley-Bright the form and function of Belasis’s Scopus—a most fortunate circumstance, as the only copy of Belasis’s _Instructions_ had been in the Hurtfew library when it was engulfed in the Tower of Darkness and disappeared from England. And whilst Segundus tutored Hadley-Bright, Childermass allowed Purfois and Tom Levy to attempt copies of his deck of Marseilles cards. Purfois, who’d had drawing lessons as a youth, was particularly delighted.

Over the course of the following week, Childermass taught all three gentlemen and Segundus what he knew of the King’s Letters—which was a fair bit more than most magicians, since he shared a room with the Book. Segundus’s pupils listened with rapt attention whenever Childermass spoke. More to the point, so did Segundus. To him, the whole library seemed to fall away into a fog whenever Childermass opened his mouth and gave instruction in that singular Northern speech. Such an accent wasn’t unusual in this part of the country, but there was something about Childermass’s in particular, the way it rumbled up from deep within his chest like the purr of an enormous tomcat, that piqued Segundus’s interest and made him attend.

Likewise, Segundus’s interest was piqued by the faint scar on Childermass’s stubbled cheek. He found his eyes falling upon it in spare moments, when his students were occupied with work, and Childermass occupied with his pipe.

Segundus also found his gaze fixed upon Childermass’s lips wrapped around his pipe-stem as he sat smoking with his feet up on a library table. Segundus watched those lips puff away at it, making rings of smoke curl up from the bowl. Then they stopped. Segundus found Childermass staring directly back at him as if to say, “Well?”

Segundus racked his brain for something to say. He cleared his throat. “I do not mean to chide you, sir, but we do not put our boots up on tables in this house.”

Both of Childermass’s eyebrows rose at that. For a moment, Segundus feared he’d overstepped his bounds—perhaps the position in which Childermass reclined was vital to his comfort and recovery—but then that sideways smile crept up Childermass’s cheek towards his scar. Childermass removed his heels from the table with a dancer’s agility and sat back to puff at his pipe again, as if the idea had been all his own.

Segundus swallowed hard. “Thank you, sir.”

Childermass nodded and returned to reviewing Tom Levy’s notes on _The Language of Birds_.

Segundus also noticed, but wouldn’t dare correct, Childermass’s customary leaning posture. The man appeared incapable of standing perpendicular to the ground. Right angles seemed to slide off the curve of his spine. Segundus would’ve attributed this to the injuries Childermass had suffered, had he not observed this same habit in him at their prior meetings. Still, Segundus found his eyes following the slant of Childermass’s long frame as the latter leaned against doorways or bookshelves, or braced one spidery hand atop a table and bent over the shoulders of the pupils to observe their work.

Just as fascinating was the way Childermass gnawed his cuticles whilst deep in thought—particularly those of his thumbs. Childermass’s hands in general were an object of Segundus’s fascination. Clever hands, with long fingers and rough knuckles. Segundus found himself wondering how it might feel to trace their curves and bumps with his own fingers. Or his mouth.

The unprecedented nature of the latter impulse jolted Segundus entirely out of his day-dream. His cheeks burned, and he quickly glanced around the library to ensure no one else had noticed. It seemed no one had; Hadley-Bright and Purfois were arguing over an interpretation of Purfois’s newly-made Marseilles cards, whilst Tom Levy learned the King’s Letters from Childermass. Then, as Segundus’s gaze flicked over Childermass again, Childermass—who’d bent to examine Tom Levy’s work—looked up at Segundus with his deep brown eyes. Their glances met for only an instant. Then Childermass dropped his gaze again, as if he’d found nothing strange or objectionable in Segundus’s face. But Segundus saw the ghost of that sideways smile.

After the first day spent tutoring the young gentlemen, Childermass retired to his room for supper. Segundus thought nothing of it—surely the man was exhausted. But when the same occurred on the second day, Segundus grew concerned and inquired after Childermass’s health. Childermass replied he felt perfectly well and thanked Segundus for his condescension. Segundus then asked why Childermass did not join him and his pupils for supper. Childermass stared at him. Which of course made Segundus flush and stammer out a combined invitation and apology. Childermass cut him off and explained he’d intended no slight to Segundus’s hospitality—he simply hadn’t wished to overstep his bounds. However, now that Segundus had cleared the matter up, he would of course join them for supper. This explanation only served to further discombobulate Segundus’s senses and left him silent throughout the resulting meal, though Hadley-Bright, Purfois, and Tom Levy chatted amicably amongst themselves and with Childermass. Still, Segundus took heart that Childermass ate and drank with as much appetite as the rest of them, and did so for every supper after that.

As the week came to a close, Segundus took Childermass aside in a quiet, out-of-the-way corner of the library to review a draft of the mandrake article. He studied Childermass’s face closely as the latter read it. 

Childermass’s expression did not change. He remained apparently indifferent to the detailed account of his own suffering. When he finished, he turned this same impassive expression upon Segundus. “It is well-done, sir. You have the facts exactly as they occurred.”

Segundus swallowed away what he wished to say—some words on his sympathy for Childermass’s ordeal, and his admiration for Childermass’s determination to see it through despite his agonies—and said, “Thank you. I would like your advice also on where I might publish it. _The Famulus_ would have been ideal, I believe, but it no longer exists, and _The Friends of English Magic_ and _The Modern Magician_ are both Norrellite publications—” He stopped, recollecting he spoke to the man who was formerly Mr Norrell’s indispensable assistant. He’d never inquired into the circumstances that had led to Childermass’s departure from Mr Norrell’s household. He’d assumed the break was mutual, but if Childermass had any lingering loyalties… well. “As it is your story, sir, as much or more than mine, I will defer to you on its placement.”

As Childermass had listened to Segundus speak, Segundus noticed a slight upward quirk at the left corner of his mouth. If this was the beginning of a sideways smile, Childermass dissolved it as he made his reply. “If you’ve an objection to Norrellite publications, then—”

Segundus felt his ears grow hot. “My objection to Norrellite publications should not prevent me from making use of them.”

“Why shouldn’t it? Mr Norrell did all he could to smother your magical ambitions, and you counted Jonathan Strange amongst your friends. It is only natural your loyalties should align towards the latter and against the former.”

“Yes, but surely the advancement of magical knowledge requires impartiality on behalf of the magician! One cannot keep vital information to one’s self simply out of pride!”

Childermass raised an eyebrow as if to say that had certainly never stopped his former employer. Aloud, he said, “As I recall, Mr Strange himself favored _The Edinburgh Review_.”

 _The Edinburgh Review_ was not a strictly magical periodical. However, Childermass’s recollection was correct; Jonathan Strange had been happy to publish magical articles in its pages. Segundus considered the suggestion. “I believe it would suit our purposes as well. Thank you.”

Childermass nodded and returned to the draft.

Segundus, recalling the horrors he’d recounted in its text, found he couldn’t let the matter go quite so easily. “The symptoms described herein have abated, I hope?”

Childermass returned to him with a curious yet mild expression. “They have.”

“Oh,” said Segundus. “I’m glad to hear it.”

Which he was. Or at least, he ought to have been. He certainly didn’t wish such agonies on Childermass or anyone. Yet there was a twinge of loss in Segundus’s chest. If Childermass were well again, then he would soon depart for York and the Old Starre Inn to resume his work with Vinculus. Remaining at Starecross Hall to tutor three young gentleman was nothing compared to Reading the King’s Book. Childermass wouldn’t stay.

And Segundus found he very much wanted Childermass to stay.

For now, Childermass did stay. He continued his work with Segundus’s pupils—particularly with Tom Levy, who proved adept at the King’s Letters. The next few days ran on without incident.

Then came Monday evening.


	5. Chapter 5

As Monday’s dinner drew to a close, Segundus happened to glance at Childermass’s plate and notice a substantial mound of beets left behind. Segundus didn’t think much of it. Perhaps Childermass didn’t like beets.

After Tuesday’s dinner, Segundus noticed Childermass neglected his roast potatoes. Segundus told himself that they’d had a rather substantial tea that afternoon. Perhaps Childermass wasn’t hungry. He ignored the little voice reminding him Childermass had been ravenous throughout his recovery.

On Wednesday, Segundus surreptitiously watched Childermass throughout the meal. Childermass cut his beef into pieces and moved it around his plate, but ate only half of it. Segundus bit his tongue and tried not to let his concern shew in his face.

Segundus meant to bring the matter up with Childermass the next morning—discreetly, of course—but all of Childermass’s attention was taken up with aiding Purfois’s interpretation of a spread of Marseilles cards, and no sooner had that concluded than Tom Levy required Childermass’s assistance with his notes on the King’s Letters, and all the while Hadley-Bright needed Segundus to teach him Pale’s Restoration and Rectification. (As there were no recent calamities to reverse, they made do with knocking over an ink-bottle and using Restoration and Rectification to repair the broken glass and clean up the ink.)

Still, Segundus kept an eye on Childermass throughout the morning, and thus bore witness to the disquieting moment when, in the midst of explaining a particular passage in the King’s Book, Childermass broke off his speech mid-word to clutch the edge of the table with one hand. His jaw clenched and his breath hissed. Then, as quickly as it’d come, the fit passed. Childermass straightened and continued his explanation as if he’d never interrupted it. Tom Levy’s confused frown lasted only a moment. Segundus’s frown of concern lasted the rest of the afternoon.

Afternoon turned to evening. Segundus’s manservant, Charles, appeared in the library doorway to announce dinner. Hadley-Bright, Purfois, and Tom Levy departed down the hall in a cloud of carefree chatter. Segundus remained under the pretense of cleaning up the final ink spill. Childermass also remained, re-gathering his cards.

Segundus finished cleaning the ink. He glanced over at Childermass.

Childermass put his cards into his waistcoat pocket.

Segundus stood up, assuming Childermass was about to do likewise. 

Childermass didn’t move.

Segundus hesitated, then approached him. “Will you be joining us for dinner, sir?”

Childermass didn’t meet Segundus’s gaze. He kept his eyes on the table where his cards had been as he spoke. “In a moment.”

Segundus nodded and stepped away towards the door. He walked out of the room, over the threshold, and into the corridor. He went a few steps further, then stopped and flattened himself against the oak-panelled wall. He watched the library doorway and waited for Childermass to come through it. 

Childermass did not appear.

Perhaps Childermass had seen something troubling in his last reading of his cards. Yes, that was it. Segundus would return to the library and inquire after it. Whatever problem the cards had brought to Childermass’s attention, Segundus would help him solve it, and all would be well. With this happy plan in mind, Segundus re-entered the library.

Childermass still hadn’t moved. His knuckles clenched white on the arms of his chair.

The lighthearted, off-hand comment Segundus had prepared died in his throat. “Mr Childermass—”

Childermass looked up at last. For an instant, he appeared startled. Then, as quickly as the expression had come, it vanished, replaced by his customary flat indifference. “Mr Segundus. I did not hear you come in.”

This was not an invitation, but neither was it a dismissal. Segundus approached him. He stopped beside his chair, close enough to reach out and put a hand on his shoulder. It took some effort to prevent himself from doing so. Instead, he cleared his throat and asked, “Is something wrong, sir?”

Childermass returned his gaze to the table. Segundus feared his question had offended. Or perhaps Childermass simply hadn’t heard it. He was debating whether or not to repeat it when Childermass answered him.

“I cannot rise.”

Segundus blinked down at him. “Pardon?”

Childermass made a sound that might have been a sigh, or a scoff, or a mirthless breath of laughter. “I’ve tried to stand, but I—”

His hands tightened around the arms of the chair, and his shoulders stiffened. His jaw clenched. Segundus realized he was making another attempt. Before Segundus could discourage it, Childermass fell back, winded. One hand came to rest on his abdomen—but as soon as it did, Childermass snatched it away and re-placed it on the arm of the chair. He kept his eyes on the table for another moment, then looked up at Segundus with a hint of a bitter smile in the corners of his lips. “I’m afraid I’ll not be joining you for dinner.”

Segundus could only stare in horror. Just three days past, he’d wished Childermass might stay longer. But not unwillingly. Not like this. A hundred questions flew to the forefront of Segundus’s mind—what had happened, and how, and what were the symptoms, and what might be done to ease them?

But the only word he could force past the lump in his throat was, “Here.”

And as he did so, he put a hand on Childermass’s shoulder.

Childermass didn’t quite flinch under his palm. He did look inquiringly at it, then back up at Segundus.

Segundus took all of his courage and used it to hold out his other hand for Childermass to take.

Childermass slapped his own weathered palm into Segundus’s smooth one and began to pull himself up. Segundus braced himself and slipped his shoulder under Childermass’s. He felt Childermass’s ribcage shudder against his side.

With a tremendous effort, Childermass pushed off just as Segundus lifted, and then Childermass was upright—or as upright as he ever was. He leaned back against the table, his hands clenching its rim, his arms shaking. Again, one hand came to clutch at his belly. This time it stayed. So, too, did one of Segundus’s hands stay on Childermass’s shoulder.

Childermass, his eyes screwed shut, said, “Thank you.”

“You’re quite welcome,” Segundus replied automatically.

Childermass opened his eyes and glanced over Segundus’s shoulder at the library doorway and the corridor beyond. “If you wouldn’t mind ringing for someone to help me the rest of the way…”

“What, to your room? I’d be happy to assist you myself.”

“You’ll miss your dinner.”

“Nonsense! Unless…” Belatedly, Segundus realized he might have overstepped. “Unless of course you’d prefer someone else?”

Childermass gave him a curious look. Before Segundus could interpret it, a wry smile slashed across Childermass’s face—though the teeth behind it were tightly gritted in pain. “I’ll not spurn help when it’s offered, sir. I’m not so full of pride as that.”

“Oh. Good. In that case…” Segundus held out his arm. 

Childermass took it, and his shoulder besides. His frame weighed heavy against Segundus’s side, but not so heavy as a man of his height ought to have been. Segundus tried not to think about it and instead focused on leading Childermass through Starecross Hall.

It was slow-going. They stopped twice so Childermass might catch his breath, once at the base of the stair and again at the top. Nearly a quarter of an hour later, they reached the north-west bedroom. Childermass indicated with a jerk of his chin that he wished Segundus to prop him up by the mantle-piece. Segundus would’ve preferred to put him properly to bed, but deferred to Childermass’s wishes.

“I can manage from here, sir,” said Childermass as he braced himself against the mantle in a manner Segundus thought suggested quite the opposite. “Thank you.”

Segundus wished very much to say he’d be happy to stay and personally assist Childermass in whatever he might require. He’d act as his valet if that’s what it would take. But from the guarded look Childermass gave him, he didn’t think such an offer would go over well. Instead he offered the services of all Starecross Hall’s staff and reminded Childermass he need only pull the bell-cord by the bed for anything he required.

Childermass nodded his thanks. 

In lieu of everything else he wished to say, Segundus said good-night.

#

The instant Segundus’s steps receded down the corridor, Childermass staggered to the desk-chair and collapsed.

John Segundus was not the first good-natured individual of Childermass’s acquaintance. Childermass was accustomed to feeling a faintly smug satisfaction when he met such people—a feeling more pronounced when he was a younger man, but nevertheless present even now—the sense of slight superiority, that he knew more of the world than they, and if they knew but half of what he’d seen, they would be far more bitter indeed. Sometimes he even bore witness to the moment their naivety turned to horror, and what could he or anyone do but laugh?

But when it came to Segundus, Childermass found his usual response turned on its head. He gleaned no joy from the prospect of seeing Segundus’s hopes dashed. Rather, he had the vaguely disquieting notion that to know Segundus suffered would trouble him greatly.

Agony stabbed through his abdomen, yanking him out of self-reflection and reminding him that if anyone suffered now, it was Childermass himself.

Childermass let out a groan, pressing one hand to his aching stomach. The other hand dipped into his waistcoat pocket and brought out his Marseilles cards. Though he had more than an inkling of what knowledge they’d impart, he shuffled them with care and solemnly laid them out on the desk before him. As he turned the final card over, a sharp kick in his guts confirmed its dread portent.

A second mandrake had quickened.


	6. Chapter 6

By seven o’clock the next morning, Childermass had risen, washed, dressed, and dragged himself downstairs to lean in the library doorway and await Segundus’s arrival. The astonished look on Segundus’s face as the latter caught sight of him made the considerable effort well worth it. Childermass suppressed a grin and shoved himself off of the doorframe into a more upright position.

“May we speak privately, sir?” he asked.

Segundus agreed and offered the services of his study. He also offered Childermass his arm. Childermass was sorely tempted—for the sake of the pain in his vitals and other reasons besides—but declined, determined to retain his dignity while he had the luxury of it. He followed Segundus to the study and stood in front of the oak desk with his hands folded behind his back as he waited for Segundus to lock the door.

“Now then, Mr Childermass—” Segundus turned and, seemingly surprised to find Childermass standing, gestured towards an empty chair.

Childermass gave a small shake of his head. If he were to sit, he doubted he could rise again under his own power. And while he had no real objection to Segundus assisting him in that—the man had been most helpful last night—he thought there were better uses of Segundus’s time.

Segundus abandoned the idea of a chair and continued his original thought. “What troubles you?”

“The mandrake has returned.”

Segundus’s already-round eyes widened alarmingly. He opened his mouth in what would likely be an indignant exclamation. Childermass hurried to interrupt it; he had much to impart, and little time.

“I should think it is a week or so along,” he continued, “which gives us a little less than fifty-one more to dispose of it and do our best to ensure it does not return. I am not so strong now as I was a year ago. In the likely event I do not survive to see the end of it, it must fall to you to dispose of the remains—both the mandrake’s and mine. I would recommend a pyre of hawthorn or rowan, or both. Surround it with a line of salt, and put a piece of cold iron in my mouth to discourage the thing’s escape. When I am reduced to ash—”

“Good God, man!” Segundus burst out. “What the Hell are you talking about?”

Childermass paused. “I am speaking of the means by which we may preserve the Raven King’s Book for the good of English magic, and prevent its theft by fairy hands.”

“Yes, but—” Segundus seemed almost apoplectic. Childermass wondered if he, too, labored under a fairy curse. “How can you be so calm about this!?”

Childermass stared at him. “Should I be otherwise?”

Segundus returned the question with a stare of his own, equal parts indignant, aghast, and… well, Childermass supposed one might call it “heartbroken,” though the idea was absurd. It occurred to him he’d seen a similar look on Segundus’s fantastically expressive face before, when he’d first ridden to Starecross Hall to put a stop to Segundus’s school. But the distress Segundus shewed on that occasion was nothing compared to desperation in his features now. It troubled Childermass, and the fact that it troubled him was more troubling still.

It became apparent Segundus lacked the ability to put his distress into words, and so it fell to Childermass to break the silence which grew more uncomfortable with each passing second. He swallowed hard to clear the unexpected lump in his throat. “This upsets you.”

“Of course it does!” Segundus cried, his spell of mutism broken. “You speak of your own death as though it were a foregone conclusion!”

Childermass raised an eyebrow. “As it is for every man.”

Segundus scoffed, sweeping an impatient hand through the air between them. “Eventually, yes! But it needn’t be now, and not by these means! You are a magician, sir, and a valuable scholar of English magic. Your talents, your skill, your dedication to its cause—your life is not a thing to be tossed aside!”

“Worse fates have befallen better men,” Childermass concluded with a shrug.

“Not like this! And not to you! I will not stand idly by and watch you suffer. I will not surrender you to this creature. As your friend, I cannot—”

“As my friend,” Childermass interrupted, having grown more and more uncomfortable with each passing word, “I would hope you might help me defeat this threat once and for all. No matter the cost.”

Segundus, his pale, handsome brow furrowed in exquisite concern, fell silent. His lips remained parted, twitching with repressed argument. His round blue eyes stared in disbelief. Then, all at once, he turned away and covered his face with one hand.

Childermass waited, the mandrake twisting in his guts all the while.

“Yes,” Segundus said at last, his voice muffled by his palm. He lifted his head and dragged his fingers down his face until they settled to fiddle uncomfortably with his cravat. “Yes, I will help you. I will do all I can to ensure your survival, and if that should fail, then… yes. I will destroy it.” He turned to meet Childermass’s eyes with a defeated gaze. “No matter the cost.”

Childermass thanked him.

“And my pupils—” Segundus began.

“No.”

Segundus stared at him. “It would be foolish not to enlist all possible aid—for the sake of the Book, if not yourself.”

Privately, Childermass agreed with that assessment, though he suspected Segundus’s motives were not so rational as he wished to represent. Still, Childermass was a man, and not without his own small portion of pride. “If you would preserve my life, it would be pointless to do so without preserving my anonymity.”

“You’ve taught them yourself,” Segundus argued in an exasperated tone. “They hold you in the highest regard—”

Childermass doubted it.

“—they’ll think no less of you for this.”

Childermass doubted that as well.

Segundus continued undaunted. “If anything, they will admire your courage in the face of such adversity. Five minds working upon the problem is better than two.”

Childermass had to admit the mathematics were sound. Still… “Not Purfois. And not Hadley-Bright.”

Segundus brightened. “But Mr Levy, perhaps?”

Childermass tried to ignore the part of him that appreciated the sight of faint hope springing anew in Segundus’s visage. “Perhaps. But for now, I would ask you to keep the matter between us.”

Segundus agreed. Childermass excused himself to retire to his room. The conversation had exhausted him, physically and otherwise. Though his body begged him to go back to bed, he stubbornly stayed up and sat at the desk reading his cards.

An hour or so later, someone knocked on his door. He bid them enter. The door opened and Segundus stepped through.

Segundus looked to the bed first. Upon seeing it empty, he frowned in confusion, then turned to find Childermass at the desk. He gave a small exclamation of surprize and seemed as if he wanted to say or suggest something—probably that Childermass ought to lie down—but restrained himself to clearing his throat. He then brought out a sheaf of papers from under his arm, Childermass’s memorandum book among them. “I thought, perhaps, if you felt up to it, we might go over the facts of the case and determine our best course of action.”

Childermass concurred and made room at the desk. Segundus spread his papers across it. Together they reviewed Childermass’s account of the first mandrake’s gestation, making a list of what Childermass had already tried, and what methods might yet have promise.

Being magicians, they began with spells. Dozens and hundreds of spells. Segundus lamented the disappearance of the Hurtfew library, certain its texts would’ve greatly assisted them in their quest for an answer. Childermass assured him it was no great loss—though, having worked in it for nigh-on twenty years, he knew the truth was quite the opposite. Segundus plainly didn’t believe him, but politely pretended otherwise, which Childermass appreciated.

Among the first spells they tried was Martin Pale’s Restoration and Rectification, “to reverse recent calamities.” Segundus displayed great optimism as they prepared it. Childermass did nothing to disabuse him of his hopes—though whether this was cruelty or kindness, he couldn’t say. There was a moment of awkwardness as Segundus held his bent-key-tied-to-a-pin up to Childermass’s stomach to perform the magic. The awkwardness stretched on as nothing happened.

“I don’t understand,” said Segundus, setting the key aside on the desk. “It worked in the aftermath of the first… well. Perhaps the spell does not consider this calamity recent?”

“Or perhaps it does not consider this a calamity,” suggested Childermass.

He’d spoken half in jest, but the look on Segundus’s face told him quite plainly Segundus did not believe it a laughing matter.

“If this,” he said, his voice sharp with frustration, “does not qualify as calamitous, I wonder that anything should!”

Childermass, torn between amusement and some deeper, more troubling emotion in response, directed Segundus’s attention to the next spell on the list.

By the next day’s evening they’d exhausted every spell they knew, and several they’d invented. None had any effect. Childermass had expected as much. Segundus, however, appeared to feel personally betrayed by their inefficacy. Whatever pity Childermass lacked, Segundus seemed to possess in abundance. And yet, as Childermass thought the matter over, Segundus’s pity might more properly be called sympathy, or perhaps empathy. Certainly he behaved more as a fellow traveler to those whose suffering he sought to alleviate, rather than a lord handing down assistance from on high. Childermass found himself appreciating Segundus’s earnest approach—the same earnestness he would’ve dismissed in other men.

Segundus divided his time between attempts to lift the curse upon Childermass and tutoring his pupils. If he suffered for lack of Childermass’s assistance in the latter, he did not mention it. Still, whenever he arrived at Childermass’s door, he brought with him a message from Hadley-Bright, Purfois, Tom Levy, or all three, wishing Childermass well and hoping he would recover enough to rejoin their studies soon. Contrary to their wishes, he only weakened.

The second mandrake grew stronger and faster than its predecessor. Childermass felt its hunger as well as his own, and could do nothing to sate it. What little weight he’d regained fell off his bones again within the first fortnight. He gave up leaving his room and resigned himself to working at the desk in the corner. When he lacked the strength for that, he settled for smoking his pipe in front of the fire.

Segundus insisted that the fire in Childermass’s room be built up to a roar every morning. Childermass explained to him quite patiently that it would do nothing, but Segundus refused to hear it. Childermass supposed it was Segundus’s coal to waste, and if he wished to waste it, it would be pointless to argue with him.

On one particular Tuesday evening some three weeks after he felt the second mandrake quicken, Childermass sat before the hearth, hunched over the lump in his belly, his clay pipe stem clenched between his teeth. His abdominal artery throbbed. It was a miracle it hadn't been sliced through in his attempt to rid himself of the first mandrake. Now it seemed to be punishing him for missing it. There was no draught in the room—Segundus wouldn’t stand for it, he’d hunted them out and stopped them all up a week before—yet Childermass shivered, his blue-tinged fingertips trembling. Though he could see the heat of the fire twisting the air around it into a mirage, the tip of his long nose felt numb with cold. The thing within him squirmed. He stared into the flames, too exhausted to think, too pained to sleep. Still, he voiced no complaint.

He heard the creak of the door opening behind him, and the approach of footsteps.

“Mr Segundus,” he said by way of greeting, not bothering to turn around. Between the mandrake and the artery, he lacked the flexibility for it.

Segundus replied in kind. Childermass expected him to continue speaking, either on the subject of his pupils or Childermass’s condition. He expected to hear the clink of a tea-tray being set down on the desk, or a rustle of books and papers.

He did not expect a quiet _whuff_ in his ears as something fluttered in his peripheral vision.

Childermass blinked and looked around him. Segundus was in the midst of unfolding a heavy black quilt, thick with batting. He glanced up to meet Childermass’s inquiring gaze and held out the quilt with a hopeful expression.

“Bessie found it in the linen cupboard,” he explained in answer to Childermass’s inquiring eyebrow. “I thought perhaps…?”

Childermass nodded. Before he could hold out his hand for the quilt, Segundus stepped forward to drape it over his lap. Childermass, astonished, let him.

Segundus bent down to tuck in the corners between the chair-legs and Childermass’s ankles. This done, he rose to go—but hesitated, his hand hovering about Childermass’s shoulder.

Childermass decided the matter for him by grabbing his hand. He was pleased to find Segundus’s smooth fingers had a strong grip to equal his own. Aloud, he said merely, “Thank you.”

Segundus smiled at that, though a certain air of sorrow remained in his eyes.

Childermass let him go.

As Segundus moved to the desk to continue plotting their solution to Childermass’s predicament, Childermass put his pipe stem back in his mouth, crossed his arms over his aching stomach, and fell asleep to the flicker of flames.

Spells having failed them, they continued with Childermass’s original plan of abortifacients. Over the course of the next three weeks, brewer’s yeast, nutmeg, and ergot hastened Childermass’s return to his bed, much to Segundus’s evident dismay. The ergot’s effects were particularly violent. Childermass didn’t bother to complain between bouts of vomiting, though it surprised him to find Segundus holding his hair back as he did so.

“Do forgive my presumption,” Segundus said in response to the puzzled look Childermass gave him.

Childermass fell back onto his pillow and managed to choke out his thanks.

Segundus set the chamber pot on the floor, but kept his hand in Childermass’s hair. He brushed it away from Childermass’s burning brow with all the tenderness of a soft breeze caressing vernal blossoms. His eyes, too, remained on Childermass’s hair, with a thoughtful, distant look. 

Then, quite suddenly, they widened, and met Childermass’s exhausted gaze with electric terror. Segundus snatched his hand away. “Forgive me, sir, I—”

But Childermass cut him off. “I don’t mind.”

Segundus’s mouth hung open for further apology. Slowly, he shut it. Even more slowly, he brought his hand down to where Childermass’s fingers clenched the counterpane, and—again, ever-so-gently—laid his soft palm over Childermass’s rough knuckles.

People were not often gentle with Childermass. Those who’d tried in the past found him amused by it—or, if they were particularly insightful, confused. There wasn’t much tenderness among child-thieves, and even less in the world at large.

Still, lying abed with a monster inside him, a fever raging, and all his strength withered away, Childermass could admit to himself that he might appreciate a gentle touch now and again.


	7. Chapter 7

Frost covered the world outside Segundus’s bedroom window. It turned the barren landscape silvery-white. As Segundus watched, a raven—the sole spot of darkness in a bright, cold world—swooped down. It landed in the yard. It pecked disinterestedly at the ground, then turned its head to stare through the window directly back at Segundus.

“ _Argent, Raven Volant_ ,” Segundus heard himself say.

Then he awoke.

He lay in his bed. His room was dark. The house was quiet, save for a faint buzzing in his head, as if a minuscule bee were trapped in his ear.

Segundus grimaced. He put his hands over his ears and shook his head. The buzzing did not abate.

With a sigh, Segundus leaned over to light the candle on his night-stand, then kicked off the sheets and counterpane. He winced as the cold night air struck his skin. He hurriedly pulled his dressing gown on over his night-shirt.

The buzzing continued. It grew stronger as he moved towards the door. Such a sensation could only mean magic. It didn’t feel like the magic of his students, nor did it feel like Childermass.

Segundus took the candle from the night-stand in one hand, and picked up the fireplace poker with the other. The iron chilled his fingers. The buzzing faded enough for him to think, though it remained a traceable presence. If the magic were not his nor his students’ nor Childermass’s, then the house had been penetrated by an unknown magician, quite possibly malevolent. Segundus tightened his grip on the poker and stepped into the hall.

The buzzing led him down the pitch-black corridors, becoming louder as he went. It didn’t take him long to notice it seemed to be leading him towards the north-west guest room—Childermass’s room. Someone—an unknown magician, or fairy, or both—was attacking Childermass with magic.

Segundus resisted the urge to run full-tilt to his aid. He kept his steps slow and measured, making as little noise as possible. He would have the element of surprise, if nothing else.

When he finally arrived at Childermass’s room, the door was shut.

It occurred to Segundus, as he set his candle down upon the floor in preparation for turning the door-knob, that it might have been wiser to rouse his students and servants as he went, rather than face the unknown magician alone. But he was here, and he had the iron poker in hand, and the buzzing deafened him, and Childermass needed him. All this was more than enough to rouse his courage to turn the knob and force the door open.

The door swung free and wide. Moonlight streamed through the window. It illuminated the bed where Childermass lay. His eyes were closed. His chest slowly rose and fell in sleep. His ragged hair spread across his pillow. All these sights might have eased Segundus’s anxieties, had there not been a pale hand combing through that dark hair.

The hand belonged to a figure clothed in black, sitting on the edge of Childermass’s bed. Long black hair fell straight down like rain and hid the figure’s face. Whoever it was looked towards Childermass, away from the doorway where Segundus stood, and appeared not to have noticed the latter’s entrance.

Segundus raised the poker like a fencing foil. “You there! Away from him, now!”

The hand paused its combing. Slowly, the head rose. The face turned towards Segundus.

It was a man. A young, handsome man, with a face as white as his hair was black. He stared at Segundus.

The moment their eyes met, Segundus recognized the man. He was a magician. Segundus knew him from somewhere before, though he couldn’t place where. A memory flitted through his mind, of a pair of statues in Maria Absalom’s house—and then, like a bird winging off into the sky, it was gone. But in that moment of recognition, Segundus relaxed. He knew this magician, and this magician meant Childermass no harm.

Segundus lowered the poker. “Forgive me, I—the buzz—that infernal hum—”

The man cocked his head to one side, not unlike a curious magpie. He made a gesture through the air with a flat hand. The buzzing ceased.

Segundus sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

The man didn’t bother acknowledging it. He turned back to Childermass. His pale hand continued combing through Childermass’s hair. No, not combing—Segundus stepped closer, squinting in the gloom. The magician was tying knots. Fairy-knots.

That niggling sense of recognition twinged in the back of Segundus’s mind again. “Forgive me, sir, but I’ve only just awoken, and I’m afraid I don’t have all my wits about me. I know we’ve met, but I cannot recall—are you an acquaintance of Mr Childermass?”

The question sounded even stupider aloud—of course they were acquainted, men didn’t go tying knots in the hair of total strangers.

The magician seemed to agree with his assessment, if his dry chuckle were any indication. “He is my servant.”

Segundus frowned. Firstly, he couldn’t place the magician’s accent. It seemed to tumble down from the North Sea through Scotland and Newcastle and York until it split to head west to Wales and east to France simultaneously. Secondly, Childermass wasn’t a servant. At least, not anymore. Segundus gave the strange magician a particularly insightful squint, to see if he could ascertain any hint of Mr Norrell about him. He could not.

The magician waited patiently for Segundus to voice his thoughts. When it became apparent he wouldn’t, the magician spoke again. “He is my amanuensis.”

“Your—I beg your pardon?”

“He Reads my Book.”

“Oh,” said Segundus. Then, in a much softer tone, he added, “ _Oh_.”

John Uskglass, the Raven King, merely blinked at him.

Segundus knew he should do something—kneel, offer tribute, apologize for his insolence, thank his King for returning magic to England—but all he could do was stare at that pale, white hand working through Childermass’s hair.

Childermass.

No doubt the King knew of the threat to his Book. No doubt he knew of the vicious, ongoing attack on the Book’s Reader. Segundus swallowed. “You are here to help him, then?”

The King gave him a blank look. “You are helping him.”

“Yes, but—” It occurred to Segundus that it might not be the wisest course of action to contradict the proclamation of a centuries-old magician who reigned over three kingdoms and held the loyalties of all the water and earth and sky of England in the palm of his pale hand. Segundus plowed ahead regardless. “—I have tried, yes, but I am failing. Nothing I’ve attempted makes any difference. I don’t know what to do. Tell me how to save him. Please.”

Despite the break in Segundus’s voice on his last word, the Raven King appeared unmoved. “I have already told you how.”

For an instant, Segundus’s frustration became a surge of rage in his heart. He forced it back down—he needed his King’s assistance, it wouldn’t do to antagonize him—and racked his brain for any hint of a past encounter with the King, any moment in which he might have received a sign. Every bird that’d ever flown over Starecross Hall. Every raindrop that fell against a window in a curious pattern. Every scrap of prophecy, every riddle, every half-remembered childhood song. He came up empty-handed. “I can’t—”

Childermass groaned. His brow furrowed, and his head turned fretfully against the pillow.

The Raven King glanced down and smoothed his hand through Childermass’s hair once more.

Childermass relaxed and slumbered on.

It occurred to Segundus that Childermass seemed to be sleeping sounder than he had any other night in Starecross Hall. He tried again. “Until I am able to carry out your instructions, is there anything else one might do for him in the meantime?”

The Raven King gave him a long look. Segundus wondered if he’d finally reached the limit of his King’s patience.

Finally, the King spoke. “Keep him warm and well-fed.”

A hint. A short, vague hint, with a touch of the obvious about it, but a hint nonetheless, and far more than he’d had all these long weeks previous. Segundus’s heart leapt to hear it. “Thank you, my lord! Thank you!”

He bowed enthusiastically—perhaps too enthusiastically, for as he brought himself up again, he saw one of the King’s eyebrows raised quite high.

The King rose from the bed. Without another word, he stepped into the shadow cast by the moonlight—a darker, longer shadow than moonlight typically cast—and vanished.

Segundus rushed forward to where his King had stood. He knelt on the floor and felt around with his hands for any sign of a door or passageway. He found only a long, black feather. As it picked it up, it crumbled to ash in his fingers. Segundus stared at where it’d been, then got up to retrieve his candle from the hall as he thought the matter over.

 _Keep him warm and well-fed_. Easy enough instruction in the abstract. Practically, it proved more difficult. Childermass could barely stomach broth. As for warmth, no fire yet built in Starecross could drive the bluish tinge from his nail-beds.

Still, Segundus built up the hearth-fire until it was blazing. He circled the room in search of draughts and closed the curtains to keep them out, plunging the room into darkness save for the fire and his candle. He wondered if he ought to snatch some coals from the fire and put them in the warming-pan, though how to slide it beneath the blankets without burning Childermass in the process eluded him. Yet he didn’t feel at ease leaving Childermass like this. There had to be something more he could do.

He found himself staring at the bed as he thought. First his gaze fell upon Childermass’s body, the steady, subtle motions of his breath. Then Childermass’s face drew his eye. In sleep, it bore neither a wry smile nor a pained grimace. His features were relaxed, smoothed out beneath the rough shadow of his perpetual scruff. Segundus could almost feel the texture of Childermass’s hollowed cheek beneath his own fingertips.

He shook his head to clear it of the thought. He had a task to complete. He had to keep Childermass warm. It occurred to Segundus that he himself, clothed in just nightshirt and dressing-gown, felt rather cold, and would be much warmer in his own bed.

Or in Childermass’s.

Segundus’s eyes flew wide at the idea. It was absurd—and yet. If Starecross Hall were an inn, and he and Childermass travelling companions—or even total strangers—bed-sharing for warmth would be the custom. There’d be no question of it. And even here, in a private house, it made a great deal of practical sense. Segundus had bodily heat. Childermass had none.

But Segundus was conscious of another heat within himself, a disturbing and dangerous flame that blazed brighter at the thought of being so close to Childermass.

A freezing draught rushed through the room. It swirled around Segundus’s ankles and disappeared as swiftly as it’d come.

Segundus took the hint, steeled his courage, and approached the bed.

Pulling back the bedclothes revealed that Childermass slept half-curled, leaving just enough space for Segundus to fill. Segundus slipped into it. His leg brushed against Childermass’s as he did so, and he shivered. Childermass’s skin was barely warmer than the night air around it. Segundus hurried to pull the counterpane back over them both.

Childermass remained asleep throughout this maneuver.

Segundus arranged himself to be as near to Childermass as possible without touching him. As he moved, he could feel the pocket their two bodies formed in the blankets growing warmer and warmer. He wished the bed weren’t quite so modern—a four-poster with thick curtains would’ve been most helpful in keeping Childermass insulated from the frost within and without. Still, as he lay his head on the pillow beside Childermass’s, he couldn’t claim to be entirely unhappy with how things had turned out. That selfish flame inside him flickered cheerfully at his present situation. Particularly as he gazed upon Childermass’s peaceful, sleeping face.

Over the course of the Raven King’s ministrations, a few locks of that ragged dark hair had fallen over Childermass’s brow. Without thinking, Segundus reached out and brushed them back.

Childermass sighed.

It was a soft sigh, more of relief than anything else, without a hint of reproach in it—yet Segundus snatched his hand back as if scalded. Horrified to find himself taking such liberties with Childermass’s person, Segundus turned away to bury his face in the pillow and will his mind to sleep.

The scent of tobacco drifted into Segundus’s lungs. He opened eyes he didn’t recall shutting and discovered a grey morning had dawned in the interim. The sight of a door not his own, and a desk not his own, and a coverlet not his own over a bed not his own set his mind spinning at first. It quickly resolved as he realized he wasn’t alone in the bed. The scent of tobacco came from a pipe, and the pipe belonged to Childermass, who sat up in bed smoking with his forearms balanced across his knees.

Childermass removed his pipe-stem from his mouth and looked down at Segundus with a faintly bemused expression. “Not that I mind, but I’m curious how you came to be in my bed, sir.”

Segundus opened his mouth to explain himself—and simultaneously realized he had no explanation whatsoever. Last night, with the Raven King’s words ringing in his ears, he simply hadn’t thought so far ahead. His senses still clouded with sleep, blurted the first explanation that came to mind. “The Raven King told me to keep you warm.” 

Childermass stared at him. He continued staring for some time.

“What,” he said at last.

“John Uskglass,” Segundus elaborated. “The Raven King.”

“I know who the King is,” said Childermass, though he continued giving Segundus that queer look.

So Segundus regaled him with the events of the previous night as best he could recall, beginning with the raven dream and the buzzing in his ear. While Childermass had not yet called him a liar or a madman, Segundus still wished he had proof of his wild claim. The raven feather was naught but dust. However, as Segundus reached the point in his tale where the Raven King appeared, he realized he had proof after all. He raised his hand to point at a particular spot in Childermass’s wild mane. “He tied that knot in your hair.”

Without taking his eyes off Segundus, Chidlermass felt through his hair where Segundus had pointed. Segundus watched his fingers close around the knot, and saw his eyes widen as he did so. (They were large eyes regardless, deep and dark, black in most light, but in the morning sunshine they became a warm brown. Segundus was glad for the excuse to gaze upon them.) The knot was close enough to the front of Childermass’s head for him to pull it into his sights. It was a deliberate and meticulous tangle any sailor would’ve been proud to tie. Childermass stared at it with an expression Segundus suspected was wonder.

“Do you believe me now?” Segundus asked.

It took Childermass a moment to reply. When he did, he spoke in a low, soft tone unlike anything Segundus had heard from his lips before. “I believed you from the start.”

The selfish flame in Segundus’s chest bloomed with new brightness. He swallowed again in an effort to douse it and continued his story. Childermass listened with the intense look Segundus now understood as interest.

“You’re a bold fellow,” Childermass said when Segundus related how he’d begged the Raven King for his aid.

Segundus’s ears grew hot, but he set the remark aside for the moment. “He claims he’s already told me how to solve your predicament.”

“And what did he tell you?”

“Nothing.” Segundus worried the edge of the counterpane in his fingers. “That is, not that I recall. I don’t know that I’ve ever had any communication with John Uskglass before. Have you?”

Childermass’s brow furrowed for an instant before he replied flatly, “No.”

“I don’t believe anyone has,” Segundus went on. “The North has no sign of their King save his magic and his Book...”

As the last two words fell from his lips, Segundus’s speech slowed, then stopped. He’d had more to say after that, but it seemed to fall away in light of what he’d just said. He whipped his head up to look at Childermass, who wore an expression similar to how he felt.

“The Book!” Segundus cried.

But Childermass was already shaking his head. “I’ve read it—”

“Yes, yes, more than anyone else alive—!”

“—and found nothing.”

Segundus’s optimism would not be so easily slain. “When did you read it last? You’ve not seen the text in more than a year—perhaps it’s changed. Or perhaps you missed something in your haste to leave Vinculus in the York Society’s care.”

Childermass didn’t seem to think that a likely possibility, though he said nothing. Instead, he resumed puffing his pipe.

“We’ve ten months until…” Segundus trailed off, not wishing to put the horrifying possibility into words. “Regardless—plenty of time to re-read the Book and find the solution.”

Still, Childermass said nothing. He would not even look at Segundus now.

Segundus tamped down his irritation at Childermass’s indifference. “Will you permit me to send for Vinculus? I’ll not tell him—or the York Society—our true purpose. I need only say I require him for my pupils’ study. And I may say, truthfully, that I will require his services for less than a year. Likely not even that.”

Childermass’s eyes remained focused on the counterpane. Pipe-smoke curled up towards the rafters.

Segundus’s patience wore out. “Would you try, at least?”

Childermass pulled his pipe from his mouth and licked his lips. Segundus held his breath as he listened for Childermass’s reply.

“Aye,” Childermass muttered, and re-placed his pipe.

Somehow, the sound of his acquiescence was not so satisfying as Segundus had hoped.


	8. Chapter 8

Segundus dressed in a rush and hurried off to the library. There he met his pupils and immediately sent Hadley-Bright and Purfois to fetch Vinculus from the York Society. The two young gentlemen didn’t require much convincing. Once they’d ridden off, Segundus set Tom Levy to work studying his copies of the Cards of Marseilles. With all three pupils occupied, he felt at liberty to return to Childermass’s room.

“They leapt at the chance to study the Book firsthand,” Segundus explained to Childermass. “I suspect telling them it was your suggestion improved your standing in their eyes tenfold—not that it needed improving.”

Childermass, still abed, didn’t seem to share Segundus’s newfound hope. “They’ll bring him back to Starecross, then?”

“I’ve instructed them to do so within the week if possible.”

A wry smile crept up Childermass’s cheek. “I hope you’re not too attached to your wine cellar.”

The passing of three days saw the arrival of a letter from York. Mr Hadley-Bright and Mr Purfois had retrieved Vinculus from Mr Thorpe’s house (it seemed Mr Thorpe was all-too-eager to see Vinculus go) and were now on their way back to Starecross Hall. Tom Levy, upon hearing the news, expressed his eagerness to read the King’s Letters in the King’s own hand. Segundus recalled his own astonishment and delight at his first and only sight of the Book, nigh on two years past at the reconvening of the York Society, and found himself excited to see it again, quite apart from the hope it represented in curing Childermass. But when he brought the happy news to Childermass, Childermass only nodded.

Segundus didn’t begrudge him it. Childermass’s strength waned with every passing day. It returned to him in fits and bursts, allowing him an hour of study here or there. For the most part he remained abed, sometimes smoking his pipe, and less often partaking in the invalid diet Segundus and the cook had originally planned for him. To Childermass’s apparent astonishment, most of what they served him stayed down, and in consequence, he grew no thinner. Segundus privately celebrated the victory.

By day, Segundus flitted in and out of Childermass’s room, bringing news and meals and distraction and—he hoped—comfort. The rare smile Childermass bestowed upon him seemed to confirm the latter. By night, he slept beside Childermass. Some mornings he awoke to discover Childermass’s arm over his chest, and Childermass’s legs tangled in his own. On these occasions Segundus tamped down the thrill in his heart and quietly disentangled himself before Childermass awoke.

On one such morning, shortly after slipping out of Childermass’s embrace to dress, the rattle of carriage wheels on the drive interrupted Segundus in the midst of tying his cravat. He hurried to the window. A farmer’s wagon had stopped in front of the house. Purfois was handing a shilling up to the farmer. Hadley-Bright was hopping down from the wagon bed. And standing in the wagon, gazing upon Starecross Hall with as much confidence as if he owned it, was a wiry fellow with a filthy, scraggly beard. He met Segundus’s eye through the window and laughed, open-mouthed, lifting his battered hat from his head in a mockery of salute.

Segundus’s heart leapt. Vinculus had arrived.

#

Childermass awoke to an empty room and a great hullabaloo throughout Starecross Hall, which he correctly assumed meant Vinculus had arrived. He gathered what little of his strength remained to rise, dress, and stagger out to the corridor. A footman hurried past.

“Hey!” Childermass barked after him.

The footman halted and spun to face him. He couldn’t have looked more astonished if an end-table had spoken.

Childermass paid the footman’s expression no heed. “Where are they, then?”

“Who, sir?”

Childermass leaned against the doorframe for both physical and metaphorical support. “Hadley-Bright and Purfois. They’ve returned with a bearded vagabond. Where in the house have they set up shop? The drawing room?”

“Oh!” said the footman. “Yes, the drawing room, sir!”

Childermass thanked him and pressed on.

In the drawing room, Childermass found Segundus, Tom Levy, Hadley-Bright, Purfois, and Vinculus. Vinculus was already divested of his shirt. Childermass suspected this was the students’ doing, as all three had gathered around and practically pressed their noses to Vinculus’s ribs to read the King’s Letters—though, judging by Vinculus’s smug grin, he was a more than willing specimen.

Only Segundus looked to the threshold at Childermass’s arrival. Upon seeing Childermass, his expression changed from academic interest to alarm. “Oh!”

Segundus’s cry drew everyone’s attention to Childermass.

In response to their stares, Childermass crossed his arms over his chest and adopted a casual lean against the door-frame. “Gentlemen.”

Hadley-Bright and Purfois talked over each other in their eagerness to greet him. Tom Levy did the same more warily, as he’d borne witness to the last few weeks of Childermass’s illness. Segundus looked very much as if he wished to suggest Childermass return to bed.

Vinculus, upon meeting Childermass’s gaze, grinned wider. “You missed me.”

“Aye,” Childermass admitted with a wry half-smile. If nothing else, he’d missed the intellectual challenge represented by Vinculus’s birthright.

Vinculus preened a little at that, licking his thumb to groom his eyebrows, then waggling them at Childermass. “You’ve fallen away since your last action. Do they not feed you here?”

Over Vinculus’s shoulder, Childermass watched Segundus’s expression change from curious to indignant. The sight made Childermass smile all the wider. To Vinculus, he said, “You mean to ask if you’ll be fed here.”

“I was promised it,” said Vinculus, with a significant glance at Hadley-Bright and Purfois. “And drink besides.”

Both young gentlemen looked to Segundus. Segundus looked to Childermass. Childermass, who knew how much more pliable Vinculus became with a bottle of wine in him, nodded. Purfois obediently rang for a footman.

While they waited for the wine to arrive, Hadley-Bright built up the fire lest the Book catch a chill with its text exposed, and Tom Levy shut the curtains lest the exposure of the Book’s text scandalize the neighbors. Purfois fetched ink and paper. Segundus approached Childermass and encouraged him to sit down. Childermass agreed, as much to scrub the intense concern from Segundus’s face as to ease his own aching joints.

The wine came. Purfois proposed a toast—to English magic and its King—and they all managed to secure one swallow of wine before Vinculus claimed the rest of the bottle. With a significant look from Childermass, Segundus and the students let him have it. Then they set to work.

Despite the many minds and many months dedicated to Reading the King’s Book, modern English magicians had deciphered very little of it. Of the York Society, Childermass considered Miss Redruth the most promising scholar—despite the Society’s reluctance to let a young, unmarried woman Read the King’s Letters from the Book directly—and even she had only picked out a few words here and there. Linguistically it was a mess of English, French, and Sidhe. It didn’t help that the alphabet was entirely original to the King, and no living magician had any idea what symbols might correspond to what sounds. Furthermore, like the earliest manuscripts of medieval monks, there was little punctuation, and no space between words. Still, Childermass had faithfully copied it down, mark for mark, and made it through most of Vinculus’s left arm before the gestation of the mandrake forced him to quit his studies.

The students of Starecross picked up where Childermass had left off. Childermass himself couldn’t help them for long. The thing growing inside him writhed, stabbing and wrenching his innards. His vision pulsed red with pain. He excused himself and retired from the room. Segundus followed him into the hall.

“Is there anything I might do?” Segundus inquired in an undertone.

Rather than express his appreciation for the timbre of Segundus’s voice—the quiet, undemanding reassurance in it—Childermass politely declined.

Still, Segundus hesitated. “It seems to have worsened.”

Childermass grinned. “It senses its own destruction is at hand. Take heart, Mr Segundus. Your notion about the Book was right after all.”

#

As Childermass staggered away down the hall, Segundus tried to take heart, as instructed. But he found it difficult to hold on to the hope that had soared within him when Vinculus first arrived. Childermass’s notes on the Book were extensive. But the Book itself was another thing entirely.

Not that Vinculus was particularly difficult—he embraced his role as the most important text in English magical history, so long as he was properly wined and dined by those who sought to study him. The Letters themselves, however, remained stubbornly incomprehensible. Segundus and his pupils studied it from the moment of Vinculus’s morning arrival to the last sputtering candle of the night. They only broke for dinner at Vinculus’s insistence upon being fed and refusal to stand still another moment while his stomach growled. They’d have stayed up all night if an unfortunate drop of wax from the candle Hadley-Bright held up to Vinculus’s left shoulder-blade hadn’t fallen upon Vinculus’s behind and caused him to jump and cry out and declare he’d never been so ill-treated in all his days (a fact Segundus very much doubted, though this doubt did nothing to reduce his sympathy for the fellow). Segundus called an end to the day’s study and promised his pupils they’d continue upon the morrow. With some grumbling, they agreed.

The next morning, Childermass was again too pained to leave his bed. Segundus sallied forth determined to study enough of the Book for himself and Childermass combined.

According to Childermass’s notes—upon which he’d annotated the suggestions and discoveries made by Miss Redruth—there were some recurring words and phrases which the York Society felt certain they’d nearly translated. One was suspected to be a definite article; another they thought might be the Raven King’s English name, John Uskglass. Childermass also noted how the Raven King’s first language had been Sidhe, which Dr Martin Pale had thought to be connected to the ancient Celtic languages. Unfortunately the only copy of Pale’s _De Tractatu Magicarum Linguarum_ was lost in the Hurtfew Library, but Childermass had taken that hint and expanded upon it to begin a correspondence with a Welsh theoretical magician specializing in the history of Merlin. The Welsh magician, before taking up magic, had been quite interested in linguistics. Segundus resumed the correspondence where Childermass had left off, with a introductory letter from Childermass addressed in tremulous handwriting.

While the letters posted, Segundus and his pupils took it in turn to transcribe the Book’s text, then pass it around for the others to study. After a week of squinting at a naked vagabond—throughout which Childermass could not leave his bed—Hadley-Bright suggested they summon the spirit of William of Lanchester for assistance. Everyone knew the Raven King had taught his Letters to his seneschal. Segundus brought the suggestion back to Childermass that night; Childermass shrugged and said, while they were at it, they ought to try summoning the spirit of the Reader from the village of Bretton in the Derbyshire hills. The morning after, Childermass drained his remaining strength helping Segundus craft two spells of summoning. Segundus helped him back to bed and, despite every instinct telling him to stay and soothe Childermass’s hurts, returned to the study of the Book.

The attempt to summon the Reader from Derbyshire did nothing, though the mention of the Reader inspired Vinculus to tell a long, rambling, fanciful version of the Reading of the prophecy he originally bore. The attempt to summon William of Lanchester ended with poor Purfois coughing up a flock’s worth of ravens’ feathers. Vinculus laughed at him. Segundus and his pupils wisely agreed to abandon summonings and return to the text. When informed of the summoning’s failure, Childermass suggested they write to Miss Redruth directly.

Miss Redruth’s reply came a week later. Working from her notes in Childermass and Vinculus’s absence from York, she believed she had translated a few more words. Most were conjugations of the verb “to be.” The others were “raven,” “England,” “to begin,” and “to end.”

Concurrent with Miss Redruth’s letter came a response from the Welsh magician. He was delighted to make Mr Segundus’s acquaintance, looked forward to many years of scholarly partnership, etc., etc. Segundus had asked him particularly for words and phrases relating to Childermass’s case—fairies, roots, changelings, quickenings, curses, stomach-ache, and so on. The Welsh magician provided them happily.

Both letters proved quite a boon to the efforts of those at Starecross Hall. The gentlemen pupils set to work with renewed enthusiasm. Yet Segundus’s delight was tinged with anxiety. They’d spent nearly a month attempting to Read the Book and come no closer to finding a cure for Childermass’s terrible fate. With every passing day, Childermass’s face grew paler and more drawn. One night, as Segundus lay awake beside a slumbering Childermass, he swore he could feel the mandrake kick. Still, Segundus soldiered on. He could do little else.

“Sir?”

Segundus, who’d put his forehead into his hands to indulge in a short bout of despair in the corner of the drawing room, looked up. Tom Levy stood before him, holding out a scrap of parchment. The King’s Letters were upon it.

“You asked us to look for natural things,” Tom Levy went on. “Fauna and so forth.”

“Yes!” Segundus shot upright in his chair. “Have you found something?”

Tom Levy believed he had, and shewed it to Segundus. It seemed to be a blend of certain words the Welsh magician had given them. Tom Levy thought it might stand for “seed.”

“It appears twice by Vinculus’s right ankle,” Tom Levy explained. “Though the second instance is altered.”

Segundus, meanwhile, squinted at the page. A feeling of recognition stirred in his stomach, like butterflies pulling themselves from cocoons. In a voice not quite his own, he read, “‘Seed begat it, so seed shall end it.’”

“Oh!” said Purfois, who’d approached them in the interim. “I’d rather thought that was ‘begin’. Though I suppose ‘begat’ does sound more fitting for a seed.”

Segundus hardly heard him. His stomach was in knots. Childermass’s problem had begun when he was forced to swallow a fairy seed. But if the word “seed” had the same connotative properties in Sidhe as it did in English and most other tongues—well. He would have to swallow a different sort of seed to be rid of it.

Distantly, Segundus was aware he ought to be appalled by the idea. Or, at best, happy to have found a cure for Childermass’s ailment. But what he felt was elation. He didn’t bother asking himself why. He knew. From the moment he’d first lain beside Childermass at the Raven King’s urging, he knew. And worse yet, so did his stirring prick. It would have done so even if Childermass’s survival didn’t depend upon it. Childermass, with his ragged hair and long lean frame and stubbled cheeks and dark eyes and that low Northern burr…

Segundus tamped down his dangerous emotions, his fingers clenching in the process and creasing the King’s Letters. “Indeed. If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen.”

“Of course,” said Hadley-Bright, who’d gathered with the rest. “Mr Childermass should know—”

But before Hadley-Bright could finish that thought, Segundus had fled the room.


	9. Chapter 9

Segundus spent several minutes steeling his nerve outside Childermass’s bedroom door.

Knowing what needed to be done was one thing. Doing it was quite another. The guilt alone was enough to stop him in his tracks—how dare he, Segundus, feel anything approaching delight at the prospect, when it was only brought about through Childermass’s pain and suffering? And guilt aside, there were practical considerations. Childermass was hardly well enough for any athletic activity. And even if he were, there was no telling whether or not he’d be willing. Segundus could never bring himself to force Childermass to take his medicine, for his own good or no.

Segundus shook his head clear of such unpleasant thoughts. He would present Childermass with the solution he’d found. What Childermass chose to do about it was his own decision. Segundus would follow it.

With a deep breath, Segundus knocked on the door. A weak rasp told him to enter. He hesitated, then pushed the door open and stepped inside.

Childermass ought’ve been in bed. Segundus found him at the desk. As Segundus approached, Childermass looked up.

“You’ve found something,” he said.

Segundus startled to a halt, and almost asked how Childermass knew, until he glanced down at the desk and saw Childermass had spread his Marseilles cards before him. Segundus himself could read nothing in the drawings, but they’d evidently warned Childermass of the coming news. “Yes.”

“Well?”

Segundus gathered all his courage and handed Childermass the paper with the King’s Letters upon it. “This passage contains phrases similar to what Miss Redruth claims as ‘beginning’ and ‘end’—and Tom Levy believes he has found the Sidhe word for ‘seed’ twice in it.”

Childermass’s eye scanned the page. He rattled off the translation effortlessly. “‘Seed begat it, so seed shall end it.’”

Segundus swallowed hard. “Oh.”

“Did you think it was something else?”

“No, no, it’s just… The, er, second instance of ‘seed.’ A slightly different accent on this letter, here.”

“Yes. I believe it indicates a carnal connotation.” Childermass lifted his gaze from the note to stare directly into Segundus’s eyes. “And I believe you’ve come to the same conclusion.”

Segundus’s stomach did an uncomfortable flip.

Childermass handed the paper back to him. “It’s more common than you’d think. Entirely too common for Mr Norrell’s tastes. Though, as you yourself are a Strangeite, that should hardly matter.”

Segundus took the paper in silence, his throat too dry for speech.

Childermass held his gaze for another moment, then dropped it with what sounded like a sigh of disappointment—but couldn’t possibly have been.

Or so Segundus thought, until Childermass added, “You needn’t put yourself through any trouble, sir. Assuming you’ve no objection to the spell’s casting under your own roof—as I can hardly travel—I’m perfectly capable of finding a willing participant on my own. Though I understand my visage is not an inspiring one.”

“On the contrary!”

Childermass’s eyes widened and met Segundus’s once more.

Segundus, startled by his own outburst, had clapped a hand over his mouth and could only stare back in horror.

Childermass blinked at him. “Then why do you hesitate?”

Segundus swallowed hard and dropped his hand. “Because… because it hardly seems fair to you, sir. What real choice do you have when your very life is at stake?”

Childermass continued staring at him. Then he stood from the desk. He leaned one hand heavily upon it as he stepped closer to Segundus. “May I be frank with you, sir?”

“Of course.”

“Were I a well man, and free to chuse my bedfellows according to my wont, I would drain you of your vitality a hundred times over and happily perish betwixt your thighs.”

Segundus stared at him. The words echoed in his ears and robbed him of his senses. That was the only explanation for his next action, which was to leap forward and seize Childermass’s face in both hands to kiss him with a ferocity he didn’t know he possessed.

Childermass stumbled a little but, after a brief adjustment, made no resistance to Segundus’s assault. Indeed, from the way his lips opened beneath Segundus’s own, and his arms rose to wrap around his back and clutch him close, Segundus could only assume Childermass appreciated the attention. He became more assured in this assumption when Childermass bodily nudged him back towards the bed. Segundus broke off their kiss—despite the resulting loss of Childermass’s lips on his own, and Childermass’s breath in his lungs, and the scrape of Childermass’s beard on his chin—and obligingly allowed Childermass to lead him there with a strong hand clenched around his arm.

The moment Segundus sat upon the counterpane, Childermass was on him. His long frame covered Segundus like a shadow, which Segundus quite liked, and he kissed him even more fiercely than before, which Segundus greatly appreciated. Still, there was a gentleness to Childermass’s handling of him. He undid the buttons of Segundus’s waistcoat with all the delicacy of a valet, and slipped a hand beneath it to trace the ribs and muscles yet covered by Segundus’s shirt. His fingertips were cold, which made Segundus feel as if he himself were blazing by comparison. Segundus arched off the bed with a choked-off gasp. Childermass took advantage of his open mouth and sealed it with his own.

Segundus’s hands, which ‘til now had fisted in the counterpane, rose to clutch at Childermass’s sides.

Childermass broke off their kiss with a hiss of pain.

Segundus released him instantly, but the damage was done, and all he could do was scramble upright as Childermass flinched away from him. “Sorry, I—”

Childermass, who’d moved off to the side to clutch at his stomach, shook his head. Through a clenched jaw, he explained, “It isn’t you, it’s…”

Of course. The mandrake. Without thinking, Segundus reached out his hand for Childermass’s shoulder to rub circles across Childermass’s back. Childermass gave a low sigh of relief. There was a tremor to it that wrenched something in Segundus’s chest. They shouldn’t be doing this; Childermass wasn’t well, he ought to be lying down covered in warm blankets and not lifting a single callused finger. Yet the spell required more from them both. Much more.

Segundus swallowed hard and suggested perhaps they ought to recline. Childermass nodded his acquiescence. Segundus helped him down, and they ended up on their sides, facing each other.

A hint of Childermass’s grimace remained, but he nevertheless pulled Segundus close for another burning kiss. Segundus eagerly returned it. He experienced a moment of disappointment when Childermass pulled away, but as Childermass did so to nip at a certain sensitive spot on Segundus’s throat that made his breath hitch and his pulse stutter, Segundus could hardly complain.

Childermass trailed his kisses up Segundus’s jaw until his lips were close enough to whisper, “Have you ever done this before?”

“Not since school,” Segundus confessed.

Childermass chuckled, hot breath ghosting over Segundus’s ear and making him shiver. “A model pupil, I’m sure.”

Segundus, already struggling to compose a worthy retort, had his answer stolen away entirely by Childermass’s rough palm pressing gently against his belly and sliding down to cup his groin. His breath left him in a stuttering gasp. He felt Childermass grin against his shoulder. Long, talented fingers traced the outline of his swelling prick through his trousers. His hips bucked up into the touch. Childermass, wonderful, merciful man that he was, obliged him by hooking his fingers through Segundus’s trouser ties and unlacing them.

Segundus groaned as that marvelous hand slipped past his fly. Callused finger-pads teased the soft skin of his cock, which twitched eagerly in reply. He buried his face in Childermass’s collar to muffle more unseemly vocalizations. The sharp jut of bone against his forehead brought him back to the reality of their situation—that, despite his own pleasure, this act was for Childermass’s sake—and gave him enough presence of mind to realize he really ought to be doing something similar for Childermass in turn. He worked his own hand down between the press of their bodies towards Childermass’s prick.

The fingers of Childermass’s free hand closed around Segundus’s wrist and gently drew him away.

Segundus hurried to apologize for his presumption, but Childermass cut him off with a shake of his head.

“It’s not stirred these past eighteen months,” he explained in a low, rumbling murmur. “It’s not likely to rise now.” He released his hold on Segundus’s wrist to twine their fingers together. “Hardly the fault of present company. Under different circumstances… well.”

The suggestive look in those deep brown eyes left Segundus quite breathless. He swallowed hard. “Oh.”

Childermass smiled at that and leaned in to kiss him again, moving from his throat down to his collarbone. There he found a spot where, if the appropriate flickering touch were applied with teeth and tongue, Segundus would moan and writhe and buck his hips uselessly into the air. Childermass chuckled low against his shoulder. Then he mercifully wrapped his fingers around Segundus’s prick and gave a gentle pull.

The sensation of Childermass’s callused fingers on Segundus’s soft, sensitive skin—that would’ve been enough. But the way Childermass stroked him made Segundus’s breath catch and his eyes roll back into his head. A firm grip at first, then a light twist, pulling the foreskin up over the head and down again, lazily stroking. A thumb pressed against the leaking slit and smeared those drops of seed across it. Then Childermass did something with a turn of his hand and a subtle tug that made Segundus give a strangled shout.

Childermass stopped. “What’s wrong?”

“What?” Segundus gasped. “No, I—” Instinct thrust him into Childermass's grip as he tried to think, to speak. “I need—please—I’m nearly—”

Childermass's concerned frown became a wicked smile. He pulled Segundus closer to whisper in his ear. "You want more, is that it?"

“Yes!” Segundus hissed, his hips bucking.

“Steady.” Childermass cut him off with a kiss.

Segundus opened eagerly for it, his mouth a willing vessel for Childermass’s tongue. But all too soon, Childermass broke it off. Segundus groaned his complaint. He ceased as Childermass went below.

Between intriguing yet bizarre rumors at school and gossip in unsavory inns, Segundus had an inkling of what Childermass intended to attempt. He’d heard a street-preacher rail against the act in London. Then again, the same street-preacher had denounced magic and magicians in the same breath, so Segundus was willing to dismiss his judgment. He didn’t suppose it could be any worse than slipping into the slick friction between a fellow’s tightly-clenched thighs. For that matter, he expected it might be a good deal better.

These suspicions were confirmed when Childermass, who’d dipped down below his navel, parted Segundus’s legs and fit his head between them. The stubble along his cheeks and jaw scraped the soft skin and downy hair of Segundus’s inner thighs. Segundus writhed at the sensation. His legs alternately parted and clenched, his body unsure of which motion would bring Childermass closer to him. And he so desperately wanted him closer. Segundus’s stiff cock twitched in eagerness. Childermass’s hand steadied it, and then Childermass’s lips were upon the head, warm and wet and teasingly tender.

Segundus bit the pillow to keep from keening.

The light kiss drew back, replaced by Childermass’s mouth enveloping the head of Segundus’s cock. His tongue—too clever by half—circled its ridge and licked along the slit.

Segundus gasped and thrust into Childermass’s mouth. The instant he’d done it, he realized and regretted it, but Childermass didn’t complain—simply swallowed down as much as Segundus saw fit to give him. His tongue ran over the length of it, paying particular attention to the throbbing vein on its underside. Segundus’s hips bucked again, and Segundus was rewarded with Childermass’s spidery fingers curling around his backside.

Segundus found his own hands sliding down to Childermass’s head. His fingers slipped through Childermass’s hair. Then Childermass began suckling him, and those hands became fists. Distantly, far beneath the sensation of wet heat wringing pleasure from his cock, he felt a few strands break under his clenched fingers. He tried to force an apology through his already-open, gasping mouth—then stopped as he heard—no, _felt_ —Childermass moan around his cock.

Segundus, in disbelief at the entire situation, but particularly this, gave an experimental tug on Childermass’s hair.

Childermass _groaned_ and sucked him off harder.

Segundus’s head snapped back, his whole spine spasming with the force of his impending spend. He tried to warn Childermass of what was coming—of the hot tide rising within him, curling down from his navel and up from his thighs, of his stones drawing up tight against his cock, and the burning all-over need spilling out from what felt like his soul. But the force of his own ecstasy choked him, and he couldn’t get out a word. He could only thrash his head against the pillow and thrust like the Devil into Childermass’s throat, treating his hair like a stallion’s reins. Then, when he thought he must either come or die from it, the tide of pleasure crashed down over him in release. Seed coursed from his cock—each pulse wracking him to his bones—and Childermass swallowed it down.

He kept swallowing until the sensation turned from pleasure to irritation. Segundus released his hold on Childermass’s hair and shifted his hips to get away. Childermass took the hint and drew back to kiss his downy inner thigh. He flicked his dark eyes up at Segundus, the corner of his mouth turned up in a wicked grin. Pearls of seed glistened on his lips.

Segundus could do little more than stare down at him. A faint voice in the back of his mind told him he ought to say something, that he was being terribly rude. “I—I—”

Childermass laughed and dragged himself up beside Segundus to press a kiss to his lips, newly wet with his own seed. Segundus tasted himself on Childermass’s tongue. He wondered, idly, why the Devil they hadn’t done this sooner.

“You never asked,” said Childermass.

Segundus realized he’d spoken his idle thought aloud. He covered his shame by kissing Childermass again, running a hand through his hair and relished the low groan rumbling up from Childermass’s throat. The kiss went on for some time—Segundus knew not how long—his mind was in an ecstatic fog. He didn’t give a damn for clocks or watches or calendars. He could spend the rest of eternity in this bed beside this man and know perfect bliss.

But the fog ebbed away, as such fogs are wont to do. The need for breath forced Segundus to break off the kiss and left him gazing blankly into those dark, smiling eyes. Bolder than ever, he reached out his hand and traced the thin scar on Childermass’s cheek. Childermass let him, then turned his head to nip at the inside of Segundus’s wrist and kiss his palm. Segundus swallowed hard and tried to turn his mind to more pressing, if less pleasant, matters.

“Are you…?” Segundus started to ask. “I mean, do you feel any different? Is it gone?”

Childermass put a hand to his own still-clothed stomach and gave a tender press of his palm. He winced. This didn’t stop him from carefully probing, tracing what Segundus uncomfortably realized must be the outline of the growing monstrosity. Yet Childermass’s expression was only thoughtful. He replied, “It’s not moving.”

Segundus supposed that was good and said so. Childermass nodded along, his gaze distant, his mind evidently somewhere else. Segundus ran a hand through his hair to draw him back. Childermass closed his eyes.

As they were both clearly exhausted, and in no condition to face the rest of the household, Segundus decided the prudent course of action would be to turn in early. He suggested as much aloud. Childermass, his eyes still closed, nodded his agreement. Segundus wrestled the sheets and counterpane around them both, and stole the quilt from the chair to pull up over them. He crawled back into bed beside Childermass. Childermass reached for him with wasted arms and clutched him close. In that cold embrace, Segundus had never felt more warm.


	10. Chapter 10

The mandrake woke Childermass with its fiercest kick yet. It struck him directly in the diaphragm, leaving him to gasp breathlessly up into the darkness. He was just starting to get his breath back when everything inside between his ribs and his hips gave a terrible sideways twist. Gorge surged in his throat. He had barely enough time to shove himself up on his elbows and aim his face to the floor beside the bed. Then up came burning bile, with a tinge of blood besides. The force of it bent him in half.

The flow ebbed. He coughed to clear away the dregs. The coughing turned to gagging, and the tide of bile surged again—though this time, Childermass felt something scratching and scrabbling at the back of his throat.

When he could breathe again, he staggered out of bed onto the floor. Half the coverlet came with him. He kicked it away impatiently and fell to his knees as the mandrake struck again.

“Childermass?”

Childermass, heaving on his hands and knees, could not answer Segundus’s mumbled inquiry. His fingernails scraped for purchase on the hard wood. More black bile splattered to the floorboards.

Then there came the light of a candle, a hand on his shoulder, and another hand gathering his hair behind his head, holding it out of the way. The hand on his shoulder slid down to rub his back.

Childermass would have expressed his gratitude, except that the thing in his guts had crawled up to his throat and was squirming fit to choke him. He shoved a hand into his mouth to try and pull it free. It’d been bad enough carving his guts open. He didn’t want to have to slit his own throat. His fingertip found a flailing root, and he managed to curl a knuckle around it.

“Oh, Christ.” Segundus clamped his fingers around Childermass’s wrist and pulled.

Childermass’s guts heaved, bile surging up to push the mandrake out, then sloshing back down to his stomach—the sensation sickening enough to make him heave anew. It leaked out around the scrabbling root, poured from his lips, burnt his nasal passage. He couldn’t breath, it was strangling him, killing him—

Segundus gave a mighty yank, and the thing tore its way from Childermass’s throat to his mouth. Blood joined the bile spilling to the floor. Childermass coughed—another tide of bile followed—he snatched his and Segundus’s hands away and went down on all fours to vomit up his curse.

It hit the floor with a flat, heavy thud. By the flickering candlelight Childermass could just see its shape. It was smaller than the first, a gnarled, fist-sized head on a little body with shriveled limbs. Its fetal arms and legs twitched uselessly in the cold night air. With a pitiful wail, the mandrake curled in on itself and lay still.

Childermass laughed.

Every gasp tore his throat like a fistful of knives, every spasm of his diaphragm throbbed with agony, every exhale became a spray of bloody mist and threatened to spill what remained of his innards besides, and yet he couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. The thing was out, the thing was dead, his guts were empty and gloriously free. Tears sprang to his eyes as he collapsed against Segundus, his whole body shaking with the force of his bitter mirth.

Segundus’s arms came up around him, steadying him. “Yes, yes, all right, come on…”

Childermass allowed Segundus to drag him backwards towards the bed. Then Segundus’s soft hands were laid around his neck, and Childermass struggled out of instinct until he recognized Segundus’s low murmur as Teilo’s hand, and relaxed to allow Segundus to stop the flow of blood from his throat. He could not, however, stop the flow of laughter.

Segundus cast Restoration and Rectification as well, then left Childermass propped up against the night-stand—still laughing, hysterical—and returned with a damp rag to clean his face and front, gently shushing him all the while. Childermass tried to quiet himself, but every time he told himself to stop laughing, he remembered why he’d started, and it returned full-force. Tears streamed down his grizzled cheeks. Segundus wiped those away, too, before throwing a house-coat not unlike his own over Childermass's shoulders. Finally, Segundus tipped a dose of laudanum to Childermass’s lips, and Childermass choked down his manic outburst long enough to swallow it.

Evidently Segundus had pulled the bell-cord whilst fetching rags and water, because a sleepy footman arrived at the door. Childermass couldn’t hear what Segundus said to him over the sound of his own cackling. The footman departed and returned with hot water, clean blankets, and a second footmen. Between the two of them and Segundus they pulled Childermass back into bed. By this time the laudanum had begun to take effect, and Childermass quieted, though he chuckled occasionally as Sengundus tucked the bedclothes around him. Every breath burned. As if from a great distance, Childermass heard Segundus thank and dismiss the footmen. Then a weight settled onto the mattress, and Childermass forced his eyes to focus long enough to bring into view the sight of Segundus sitting on the bed beside him.

“Good morning,” Childermass rasped. “It is morning, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said Segundus. “But early yet.”

“I’m sorry to have woken you.”

“It’s all right.” Segundus smiled, but the expression didn’t quite reach the worry in his eyes.

That worry disturbed Childermass. “Is it dead?”

“I believe so. I’ve put it on the fire regardless.”

Childermass chuckled, which did nothing to alleviate Segundus’s concerned expression. But this time his mirth faded naturally. He was too exhausted to do otherwise. He was likewise too exhausted to do more than watch as Segundus reached out his hand, hesitated, then brushed a stray lock of hair from Childermass’s forehead. The chill of Segundus’s fingers told Childermass he’d worked himself up into a boiling fever. Then Segundus’s hand trailed down his cheek, and his thumb traced the thin scar left by Mr Lascelles’s knife. Childermass twitched his lips into smile. Segundus returned it more warmly than before.

“Are you hungry at all?” he asked, smoothing his hand through Childermass’s hair again. “Thirsty?”

Childermass mustered the energy to shake his head.

“You should go back to sleep, then,” said Segundus.

Childermass nodded absently and nodded off much the same.

Consciousness returned to him in waves, prompted by the angry chirps of a lone finch and a sliver of bright sunshine on his face. He stared up at the ceiling for a few confused moments. Then all at once the recollection of why his guts ached flew back into his head, and he bolted up onto his elbows—which did his aching guts no favors. He clamped a hand over his stomach and flicked his gaze across the room.

The room was empty. The door was ajar, and Segundus’s back visible through it, Segundus himself in _sotto voce_ conversation with a servant. The scent of beef broth and toast wafted in from the hall. Childermass turned from it to survey the hearth, where a furious fire roared. Squinting through the bright flames, Childermass could just see the faint outline of the damned lump that had caused all this trouble.

“Hawthorn and rowan, as you recommended,” said Segundus.

Childermass whipped his head towards the door and winced at the resulting pound in his skull.

Segundus winced sympathetically and hurried in with the breakfast tray. He set it down on the night-stand and sat himself down beside Childermass. As if habitual by now, he brushed his hand over Childermass’s hair—a habit to which Childermass happily, if confusedly, acquiesced.

“How are you feeling?” Segundus asked.

“Better,” Childermass said, though his voice sounded like death even to his own ears.

Segundus’s concerned frown seemed to agree. He urged Childermass to lie back and pulled another pillow into place behind Childermass’s shoulders to prop him up. Childermass saw no reason not to indulge him. Besides, he didn’t think he could hold himself up much longer—his arms were beginning to tremble.

Segundus tucked the counterpane back up over his chest. Then he reached for the breakfast tray.

On the one hand, Childermass had six weeks of starvation to make up for. On the other hand, he didn’t think he could lift his arms to feed himself. He stared hungrily at the steaming bowl of beef broth.

Segundus, glancing between Childermass’s face and the tray, seemed to glean the gist of the issue. “If you don’t mind, may I…?”

Childermass considered it. He supposed since the man had been kind enough to perform an impromptu Caesarean for him, he could be trusted with a spoon. He nodded his acquiescence.

Segundus, much to Childermass’s relief, said no more of it. He performed the task with utmost professionalism. Not a drop was spilled between the bowl and Childermass’s lips—and a good thing, too, for Childermass’s gnawing stomach demanded all of it.

That same stomach complained almost as fiercely once it’d received all it demanded. Childermass, through gritted teeth, gratefully accepted the laudanum offered by Segundus. Still, he couldn’t help clutching at his ungrateful guts with one hand as he waited for the anodyne to take effect.

Segundus’s soft hand settled over his own worn knuckles. Segundus himself locked eyes with Childermass, asking wordless permission.

Childermass granted it with a nod.

Ever-so-gently, Segundus moved Childermass’s hand aside. With his own palm he began to rub a slow circle over Childermass’s stomach. His touch was light and unspeakably comforting.

Childermass’s pain ebbed—no doubt due to the laudanum, but he gave at least as much credit to Segundus’s ministrations. He felt himself starting to doze off again. “Thank you, Mr Segundus.”

“John.”

Childermass, whom no one Christian-named, stared at him. “Your pardon?”

A hard swallowed bobbed down Segundus’s pale white throat. “You may call me John, if you like. After all, if recent events have not warranted such intimacy I daresay I don’t know what would.”

Childermass couldn’t stop staring at him, though he felt a sideways grin creeping up his cheek. “Thank you, John.”


	11. Chapter 11

“I do not think,” said Segundus, “that it will be possible to publish.”

Some days had passed. Childermass spent most of the hours sleeping, with Segundus watching over him. In his waking moments he ate, drank, and submitted to Segundus’s ministrations. A thumb tracing the scar on his cheek, fingers combing through his hair, a warm palm on his aching belly—though he could have survived without them, he didn’t deny the comfort they offered. They were a welcome change from the times he’d had of late.

Segundus, when not watching Childermass, had—at Childermass’s encouragement—returned to his article on the Ordeal of Mr Smith.

Childermass, who knew perfectly well why it might be difficult to publish the updated article, asked the question anyway with a wry grin.

Segundus fixed him with a look. “Even _The Edinburgh Review_ will shy away from sodomy.”

Childermass shrugged. “It was hardly your fault. An enterprising footman, overhearing your discussion of the Book’s passage with your colleagues, took it upon himself to perform the service for Mr Smith. You had no foreknowledge of his intentions. There was nothing you could have done to prevent it.”

Segundus furrowed his brow. Childermass laughed.

“The description of sodomy,” Segundus continued over Childermass’s fading chuckle, “is just as abhorrent as the act, I fear.”

“Perhaps the knowledge of its magical applications will change that,” said Childermass.

Segundus didn’t seem convinced. “And what, pray tell, became of my enterprising footman?”

“Knowing sodomy to be a capital offense, and not wishing to risk his neck, he scampered off before you could alert the magistrate. And since it did Mr Smith no harm—indeed, it did him a great deal of good—Mr Smith saw no reason to pursue the issue legally.”

Segundus sighed, dropping his gaze to his page of notes. “I can only assume the footman feels tremendous gratitude towards Mr Smith.”

Childermass’s grin widened. “I’m sure Mr Smith feels likewise.”

Segundus glanced up with a smile of his own.

Days became weeks. Childermass grew stronger. He heard reports of the students’ progress with the King’s Letters, and of the King’s Book making a menace of himself, depleting the wine cellar and enchanting—metaphorically speaking—at least one housemaid. To say nothing of Vinculus’s habit of sleeping off his excess splayed out on the sopha in the nude. The drawing room had quickly become off-limits to all persons but magicians, much to Segundus’s embarrassment. Childermass couldn’t help but laugh at him. Still, when Segundus’s distress grew too much to bear, Childermass heaved himself out of bed—over Segundus’s protests—and scolded some sense into Vinculus, who agreed to cease his Bacchanal.

This left the house very quiet indeed, and with no fires to put out or tasks to perform or riddles to decipher, Childermass grew quite bored. Lying abed for weeks on end did not suit him. It left him with too much time to ponder his situation. The only bright spot in that dim haze of boredom was Segundus. And that fact only troubled Childermass further.

The life he’d led had not proved conducive to long-term attachments. Even his position with Mr Norrell, the last master he would ever have, had come to an end, as all things must. While the staff of Hurtfew Abbey had grown attached to Childermass—as he discovered much to his surprise upon leaving Mr Norrell’s service—Childermass had not allowed himself to do the same for them. He wondered now if he had missed something in closing himself off from his fellows. Still, his unsentimental departure had enabled him to find the Raven King’s Book and become its Reader, so he could not lament for long.

At present, however, with his glory and burden secured, he found himself for the first time in thirty years giving consideration to the thought of attachment. The thought unnerved him. As he often did when unnerved, he turned to the cards of Marseilles. He dragged himself up from the bed—easier now than it had been in recent weeks—and laid them out on the desk.

The Two of Swords and the Five of Swords were only to be expected, given the circumstances leading up to his present position. But the Cavalier de Coupe gave him pause. He cocked his head at it, then dealt the next three. Death, the Ten of Cups, and the Two of Cups. Childermass frowned at the cards. If they cared for his disapproval, it didn’t shew in the final three: the Six of Swords, the Four of Swords, and the Roy de Coupe.

Swords into cups. It was quite possibly the least-subtle spread they’d ever shewed him. Childermass leaned back in the desk-chair and glowered at the cards. A knock at the door interrupted him. He bid whoever-it-was enter.

Segundus stepped into the room with a tray of tea-things. His smiling face was the thing Childermass both most and least wanted to see at the moment. He turned his attention to the tea tray. The tray could be destined only for the night-stand or the desk. The desk was closer, and Childermass moved to clear it—but stopped himself. The situation would be difficult enough to explain through words—Childermass, while by no means an inarticulate man, preferred to express his innermost thoughts through action—but perhaps the cards could speak for him as they’d spoken to him. He looked back to Segundus, who’d crossed the room to set the tray down on the night-stand without a hint of complaint.

“John,” said Childermass.

Segundus glanced up, startled. Childermass couldn’t blame him. The name felt odd tripping off his tongue, and odder still to his ears. But the little hopeful smile flickering across Segundus’s face was well worth any discomfort on Childermass’s part.

Childermass continued. “There’s something here you ought to see.”

Segundus abandoned the tray and hurried to peer over Childermass’s shoulder at the cards. “What did you ask them?”

Childermass was silent a moment, then said, “I asked them what was in store for me now that the mandrake is purged.”

“And what do they say?”

Childermass hesitated—a sensation as unfamiliar as it was uncomfortable—then stabbed a finger at the Two of Swords. “In the recent past, I was attacked.” He tapped the next card in the sequence, the Five of Swords. “I continued to be attacked.” The Cavalier de Coupe. “I was rescued.”

He glanced at Segundus to see if he understood the significance. Segundus, with one hand supporting his chin as he furrowed his brow at the cards, didn’t seem to notice anything amiss.

Childermass moved on to Death. “At present—the danger is ended.” The Ten of Cups. “I am safe.” The Two of Cups. “…I am urged to take notice of the Cavalier.” He tapped the relevant card again, and gave Segundus a less-guarded look.

Segundus nodded, but the vertical wrinkle between his brows bespoke confusion.

Childermass hoped the final three would see them through. He tapped the Six of Swords. “For the future, I am confined—to bed, most likely. The cards disapprove of my wandering about the house.”

He shot a wry grin back at Segundus, who matched it with the smile of a man who quite agreed with the cards.

Childermass moved on to the Four of Swords. “I am encouraged to rest.” His finger slid easily to the Roy de Coupe, but his throat had gone suddenly dry, and required a hard swallow to force his voice out. “…My rescuing knight has become a king. If I have not taken notice of him before, I must now.”

With that, Childermass leaned back in his chair and turned to look Segundus—John—full in the face.

Segundus’s bewildered glance flitted between the cards and Childermass. Then, slowly, his expression changed from bewilderment to wonder, and his gaze settled on Childermass alone. “…Oh.”

“Indeed,” said Childermass.

A bright and beautiful spark of hope came into Segundus’s eyes. “Does this mean you’ll stay?”

Something tugged in Childermass’s chest. He swallowed it away. “I am the Reader of the Raven King’s book. I do not think the York Society would take kindly to me removing the Book from their meeting-place. And I do not think the staff of Starecross would take kindly to Vinculus becoming a permanent resident.”

Segundus’s marvelously expressive face shewed he understood the logic of Childermass’s reasoning. It also shewed how little he liked it. But Segundus— self-effacing, kind-hearted, courageous Segundus—made no complaint.

Something twisted in Childermass’s chest. In a voice even hoarser than his natural tone, he added, “But if it were possible, I should wish to stay.”

Segundus’s lips twitched in a brave attempt at a smile. “Then—I shall see you at the next meeting of the York Society, at least. And—perhaps—if you could part Vinculus from York, or yourself from Vinculus, for a week or a day or even a night—”

A long, winding smile curled up the side of Childermass’s face. “Is that an invitation?”

A hard swallow traveled down Segundus’s throat. He whispered, “Yes.”

“Then I am happy to accept.”

The resulting thrill in Segundus’s features matched the one Childermass felt, but dared not show.

Childermass hurriedly cleared his throat. “As the cards have said, I should remain here for some time to convalesce. With your permission—”

Childermass could not even finish the remark before Segundus was nodding emphatically to indicate just how much of his permission Childermass had.

Childermass suppressed a smile as he continued. “I would like to shew my appreciation for your hospitality.”

The spark in Segundus’s eyes became a flame. Childermass took this as a sign he should stand and kiss the fellow.

Segundus’s soft lips opened eagerly beneath Childermass’s cracked ones. Childermass had kissed handsome men before—rich men, poor men, beggar-men, thieves—but none who’d proved so kind, so dependable, so valiant as Segundus. And none who had that certain delightful sensitivity under the jaw that made Segundus half-collapse when Childermass nipped at it.

Childermass broke off kissing Segundus to check the lock on the door—secure—then acquiesced to Segundus’s smooth fingers tugging him by the wrist towards the bed.

“Steady—” Childermass started to say, but was cut off by another burning kiss from Segundus’s lips, swollen from the fury of their embrace. Their hips met as well, and little wonder Segundus acted with such urgency—his prick was at half-mast already. Childermass put a hand to it through Segundus’s trousers and felt it pulse and swell against his fingers. Segundus pressed against them, his breath hitching. Childermass grinned into his shoulder.

Childermass had some concerns about his own cock. It’d been a silent partner for nigh on two years. And it wouldn’t surprise him, at his age, to find impotence remained after the curse had lifted. He would find a way to work around it of course, but he’d be disappointed nonetheless.

Today, however, it did not disappoint him. On the contrary, as Segundus’s desperately grasping hands clutched first at Childermass’s shoulders, then slipped beneath his jacket to hold his waist, then delved further down at his thighs and finally up again to cup his groin, Childermass’s prick twitched to life. He found his hips rolling into Segundus’s palm.

They continued making their way towards the bed in fits and starts. Childermass, remembering what’d become of their clothes last time, peeled off layers as they went. It was well worth it to see the way Segundus’s eyes widened, and to also see the swell of Segundus’s shoulders beneath his shirt-sleeves once he followed suit and tossed his own jacket aside. Childermass helped him with his waistcoat buttons, a not-entirely-selfless act. Once he could press his rough palm to the soft skin of Segundus’s bare chest he tumbled him to the bed. Segundus pulled him down atop him. Childermass took the opportunity to divest him of his trousers.

Segundus set to work on Childermass’s trouser ties in turn, and soon had his prick in hand. He gave it a few experimental strokes that had Childermass groaning into the pillow. But when Segundus seemed about to dip his head down to return the favor Childermass had shewn him before, Childermass stopped him.

“If you wouldn’t mind,” he said, “I should like…” And he slipped a hand up between Segundus’s soft thighs, thrusting his fingers between them.

Segundus’s eyes flew wide and his lips parted in a delighted smile. He pulled himself forward and aligned his body with Childermass’s in such a way that Childermass’s prick nestled snug between his legs. Then, in an obviously well-practiced maneuver, he clenched them tight shut.

Childermass bit back a moan, involuntarily ducking his head and closing his eyes. Segundus’s downy hair and soft skin cradled his cock in glorious heat. His hips bucked of their own accord and he gave a choked-off cry at the sensation. Segundus’s smooth hands came down and grabbed his buttocks in a bruising hold, pulling him in again—and again—Childermass took the hint and thrust with purpose.

At this angle, Childermass’s mouth was of a height to give especial attention to Segundus’s collarbone. He kissed it—Segundus gasped—then nipped at it, gently yet firmly, whereupon Segundus moaned and his hips jerked. Thus encouraged, Childermass continued paying it homage as he thrust his cock between Segundus’s thighs.

Segundus’s hard prick remained trapped between their bellies. Seed leaked from its tip, hot and wet. Childermass relished its every throb as it rolled against his stomach. His own thrusts grew more urgent—he hadn’t spent this quick since he was a lad, but with Segundus writhing beneath him, back arching and mouth opening—soft lips and soft thighs and pale white skin begging to be bitten—smooth fingers on Childermass’s limbs, pulling, grasping, wordlessly pleading for more—

Childermass worked a hand down between them and got his fingers around Segundus’s cock.

He heard a catch in Segundus’s breath as he worked his prick, watched Segundus cover his mouth with the back of his hand to muffle his cry of ecstasy as his thighs clamped tighter around Childermass’s cock. Segundus’s eyes clenched shut, his strong jaw tensed, his back arched, and his prick throbbed in Childermass’s hand.

Warm seed filled Childermass’s palm. His eyes remained fixed on the mottled pink flush blooming under Segundus’s pale cheeks. It was among the most pleasing sights Childermass had ever seen. Witnessing it was enough to push him over the edge. He felt his spend building in him, his stones drawing up, his thrusts coming faster and more erratic.

Then one of Segundus’s hands flew up to his hair and grabbed a fistful of it, and Childermass felt that delightful pinpointed burn on his sensitive scalp, and—

He bit Segundus’s shoulder to silence himself as his hips stuttered between Segundus’s thighs with every pulse of hot, coursing pleasure. His spend ebbed through him like ripples in a pond, etching the King’s Letters across its glass surface, then wiping blank along with Childermass’s mind.

He came back to himself curled around Segundus, with Segundus’s legs entangled in his own. Segundus was already awake and stroking his hair. Childermass shifted, prompting a groan as wasted muscles protested their recent exercise. Segundus’s hand moved down to rub soothing circles onto his shoulder.

“I’m all right,” Childermass protested half-heartedly, his voice hoarse.

Segundus kissed him, as if promising to ensure it.


End file.
